Love Never Dies
by lady-demacabre
Summary: NOT THE MUSICAL SEQUEL! She came into his life before Christine, and Death ripped her away. But it wasn't the end of her story. After all, love never dies. Erik/OC
1. Prologue

_Once upon a time there was a girl—me, actually—and she wrote a story about a girl who fell in love with the Phantom before he met Christine. And the story was crap._

_Years ago I wrote a story called "Fortunes Charms". The story covered the life of a girl with whom the Phantom was in love, a sequel dealt with the Phantom's obsession with Christine due to grief over her loss, and the last part was about the girl's reincarnation and return to Erik. Potentially not bad, actually crap. Back then my only exposure to the Phantom of the Opera was the Wishbone version, the Andrew Lloyd Webber Original Broadway Cast recording, a not-so-great matinee performance at Her Majesty's Theatre, and the 2004 movie version with Gerard Butler. Let's just say that the story was as bad as my Phantom knowledge was little._

_Fortunately time has rectified that fault and I have not only read the book several times, but I have seen a many of the different movies as well, the good and the truly dreadful (*cough*DavidStallermusical*cough*)._

_So my first ever fanfiction was horribly bad. But the plot actually had some really good points, and the whole idea kept coming back to me. So after a lot of research, much rethinking, and testing all sorts of different point of views, I've written the story again. This time, if it's not too egotistical to say, I think it's much, much better.

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The chorus girls chatted away while changing and getting ready to go out to dinner with rich admirers. It was the last night of the current opera, and they had a week off before rehearsals for the next started. The general dressing room danced with a kaleidoscope of colours: the different shades of hair, natural and not; the dresses, most indecent and some so decadent as to be in bad taste; the face paint smeared over faces, some pale from lack of sun and some red from too much drink.

Only one did not join the others. She didn't stand out. She was just a small shadow in one corner that no one noticed. Others would frequently bump into her because she faded into the corner.

But one of the girls did notice her. She was new to the Opéra Populaire. Irinushka Feodorovna had not succeeded in joining the Russian ballet, and had come to Paris to see if the French ballet would accept her. Not only had they welcomed her, but the ballet mistress Mme. Sevestre promised that Irinushka would be the next prima ballerina as soon as _La Belle Flame_ and the manager realised she was no longer young enough, or good enough, for the position.

When Irinushka first noticed the shadow of a chorus girl, she crossed her fingers in the sign against evil. There was something dark hanging over the girl. Irinushka repeated a prayer in her head as she finished dressing and left to meet with the handsome Duc that had invited her to dinner.

* * *

Though the small chapel in the opera house was Roman Catholic, Irinushka received permission from both the manager and the priest (who only occasionally came to check on the chapel—he knew anything else would be throwing the scriptural pearls before the debauched swine of the opera house) to place a few icons there.

Irinushka stepped down into the chapel. She made a point of saying prayers after each performance and evening out with a gentleman. Very few in the opera house took advantage of the tiny chapel. Those who wanted to flaunt their religious natures went to finer, larger churches nearby. The rest didn't go at all. Irinushka liked the privacy of the opera house chapel. But today she was not alone. Kneeling in front of the prayer candles was the shadow girl. She wore a simple black dress and the only jewellery was the wooden rosary in her hands.

Irinushka left as silently as she could. She didn't think the other girl had seen her.

Over the next few weeks, Irinushka continued to keep an eye on the strangely quiet, dark haired girl. Irinushka learned her name, but she decided to secretly call the girl Rusalka. The girl fit the description of the undead nymphs that came out at night to sing and dance and lure men to their watery deaths. The more she saw of Rusalka the more Irinushka was convinced that the name suited her. She only wore dark dresses or her white practice outfit when not in costume. With her black hair and pale skin she looked like a ghost walking around the opera house and in its poorly lit halls.

Irinushka found her several more times in the chapel. When the chorus girls were allowed free time, instead of going out and about the city like the others, Rusalka stayed in the opera house and often disappeared somewhere in its dark corridors. Irinushka watched her fade into the shadows and come out of them on many occasions. A few times she spied Rusalka on the stairs leading to the roof. When attending the funeral of a French friend of her father, Irinushka saw Rusalka walking in the graveyard past the tomb of Pierre Abélard. There seemed to be almost a cloud of death hanging over her.

Irinushka also noticed that Rusalka was a good dancer, and had an incredibly beautiful voice. Over time her voice kept improving, but Irinushka couldn't figure out how. Rusalka never seemed to take lessons. Perhaps she made a deal with the devil and he was her teacher. She almost thought that instead of Rusalka, the girl should be called _Strigoaică_. It was a creature she learned about from her Romanian cousins: a witch risen from the dead that sucked the life out of the living. But there wasn't anything evil about her exactly. She just seemed too close to Death.

After a some months, Irinushka became the new prima ballerina. Since the prima donna preferred working with the previous ballerina, and had no wish to return after the Siege of Paris had finally ended, she did not continue as the first soprano. The whole opera house was shocked when the manager announced who would replace her: Irinushka's little Rusalka. Rusalka already had private chambers away from the prima donna dressing room, and kept them to avoid as many people as possible. Irinushka discovered that the future prima donna's apartment was located high in the opera house in an unused corner surrounded by old storage.

There were whispers among the cast that the Opera Ghost made the manager pick Rusalka for the coveted position of prima donna. Irinushka had heard tales of the ghost before, but she never believed any of it. If there was a ghost then it was only Rusalka herself.

Then there was the terrible accident. The new ballet mistress, formerly just the assistant, Mme. Giry found the prima donna dead from a fall down a set of stairs leading from the roof to the prima donna's private quarters. Everyone started saying that the ghost was no longer pleased with his protégé and had pushed her down the stairs. But pushed or not, the fall broke her ribs and killed her.

Irinushka caught a look at her Rusalka as they took the body out. She was dressed in a white gown and looked like a ghostly bride. The face looked like it was in pain and anguish. Irinushka feared that the girl would indeed become a rusalka. The only way to save her from that fate would be to avenge her death. But how had she died? And if it was the ghost, what then?

Irinushka went to the grave to pray for the dead woman's soul to find peace—and to allay Irinushka's superstitious fears. There was a stone covering the length of the grave and a large cross on the head stone. Though the grave site was fitting for her status as the prima donna, very few—if any—had visited the site since she never performed after becoming prima donna. From the snow Irinushka could see the imprint of just one who had recently knelt in front of the grave and put his arms on the stone covering. She placed her bouquet with garlic concealed within next to the single white rose with a black ribbon. She repeated her prayers, but even then had a sense that Rusalka would not find peace in death.

Because of that feeling, Irinushka decided that she must leave the Opéra Populaire. Only bad things could come from this, and she didn't want to be a part of it. People from the Theatre Royal in London had asked her to come. Now she decided she would go to England. Crossing herself, she stood and took one last look and the grave. Swiftly she left the cemetery.

The snow continued to fall over the grave and soon covered the words on the headstone:

Musette Rigaud

Elle dance avec la Mort

et chante aux Fantômes

* * *

_Next up, the Phantom's perspective._


	2. Lament

_A Brief Note on the Inspiration: You might be wondering: where did the titles come from? "Lost to Truth," "A Wretch Who Inly Pines," "Horror-Breathing Night" are all from a poem by Robert Burns called "Lament." The poem was a big part in the inspiration for this story. Also all recognisable dialogue/lyrics belong to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Charles Hart, and Richard Stilgoe. In fact, most of this chapter does not belong to me; it's based on the movie.

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**A Wretch Who Inly Pines**

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No one knew how exactly the young diva Musette died. They couldn't even really call her the prima donna, as she had never performed as such. Mme. Giry claimed to have gone to speak with her, and then to have found the young soprano dead on the stairs.

Whispers among the corps de ballet said it was the doing of the Phantom of the Opera, that he was displeased with the one he was known to have favoured.

The manager, M. Joannot-Dupuis, left the opera house soon after the accident without any explanations. The new prima ballerina abruptly took an offer from London and left. Mme. Giry stayed ever the same: all knowing and aloof.

The little girl Christine, an orphan of seven, went down to the chapel to light candles for her father and the lady who had been so kind and gave her hope when she doubted that her father in heaven would send the angel he had promised. Then, some weeks after the death of the kind lady, the promised Angel of Music began to sing to her in the chapel.

* * *

The pain was unbearable. For the past three weeks he had been in his lair, barely eating, sobbing when he wasn't asleep. He had to do something. Something had to help him forget. Then the pain would become numb. But what? Musette had been in every moment of his life, even if they weren't in the same room. And all he had left of her was her wedding present to him: the music box with a monkey on top. He had made sure, though, that no one would ever enter her room again. M. Joannot-Dupuis assisted him with that before the manager's hasty departure.

Erik knew the rumours, that he had killed Musette.

'Let them think that,' he thought. 'Let the fools think whatever they like.'

There had to be something… wait… she had once called him something… Angel of Music. There was an orphan who was waiting for the Angel of Music. Musette had spoken of how the girl reminded her of herself—how he had been _her_ Angel of Music. Perhaps to be this child's Angel was the key to forgetting… to ending the pain.

Erik looked at the girl in the chapel. She was small and sweet looking. She was also so sad. Together they would lose their sorrow and find happiness.

* * *

**(Years later…)**

He had finally scared that insipid manager away, apparently all the way to Australia.

'Not bad, if I say it myself,' the "Phantom" thought to himself with a malicious chuckle.

But the diva still had to go. Carlotta was by far the worst prima donna to ever be on the stage of the Opéra Populaire. Just a few more accidents, though, and he would have the woman run screaming from the building. Then Christine would be in the limelight. She would do what his bride Musette could not. That would end his pain.

The death still hurt, even after ten years of teaching and watching over Christine. The pain _would_ fade, he promised himself. Now he just had to get the surprisingly resilient, or just incredibly stupid, diva out of the way.

Buquet was away from his post getting more liquor, so it was no trouble dropping the backdrop onto the spoiled brat of a diva. Maybe this would help keep the new managers in line as well. He withdrew to the shadows as the man on the stage yelled at Buquet, now back at his post.

Buquet was becoming a threat. The man knew too much. He was once trustworthy, but now… things had only gone downhill since the tragedy. Buquet no longer trusted him, so the Phantom couldn't trust Buquet. He would have to be dealt with, and soon.

La Carlotta was throwing another tantrum and storming out. Unfortunately, Erik knew that she would eventually come back. Carlotta walked out and returned all too frequently. One of these times she would not be coming back. He would do something.

The managers had finished panicking and now had Christine singing. The Phantom walked away listening to her voice.

'Finally,' he thought. 'She will perform, and then I will bring her to me. She will end the nightmare my life has become with her love.'

* * *

He went to the passage behind the dressing room only to find her there with some boy. The boy left and Christine went to change. He took his chance; he went and locked the door, and then returned to the concealed passage.

"Insolent boy, this slave of fashion basking in your glory. Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"

She responded well: only a little fear, but complete trust in her Angel. She was perfect, beautiful, and responsive to his music. A small part in his mind didn't like that she fainted at the sight of herself in a wedding gown, but his consuming need for her ignored it. He placed her on the bed and worked feverishly on his opera.

Sometime later he heard her getting up. She walked towards him, but he continued to work. Suddenly his mask was off and Christine had a look of complete horror and disgust on her face. His temper flared, almost more at her fear than at her.

"Damn you!" He swiftly returned her to her room. She would learn to love him, to no longer fear him.

In his boiling anger he conveniently forgot that Musette had not been afraid, had not looked at his face with disgust, but had still loved him.

* * *

**Lost to Truth**

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No salary, Box Five taken by that boy, and La Carlotta still in the lead. With whom did they think they were dealing?

Luckily it was no problem getting rid of the prima donna once she was on the stage. The idiot woman relied heavily on throat sprays, a sign that she was a lying, untalented fool. Perhaps the embarrassment of losing her voice would get rid of the crone once and for all. He would have to get the attention of the managers publicly, that way they would never be able to shrug it off as a silly prank by one of their friends or employees.

"Did I not instruct that Box Five was to remain empty?" his voiced boomed throughout the theatre. He chuckled as he left, hearing the awful croaking of the "star".

But something wasn't right… Buquet. It was time to deal with the meddling fool. He had gone too far this time! The Phantom took his lasso and yanked the life out of the one-time ally. That would send his message to those fools.

He stormed off to the roof, satisfied with his night's work. He didn't know why he went to the roof of all places. He needed to think, and to enjoy his triumph. All of those below were fools! All except his one shining Angel.

He heard footsteps and voices from the main staircase. He quickly hid behind one of the statues. Looking around the stone he saw Christine and the boy.

Slowly he felt his heart break into pieces as they swore their love for each other. But this time it was not pain that filled the shattered pieces, but jealousy and hate. Instead of a searing hot agony, there was only a cold tide of malice.

She would not throw him aside like that. She would be _HIS_! The boy would pay.

* * *

He remained quiet in his lair for some weeks. He wanted everyone in the opera house above to feel comfortable and safe again. He worked almost every hour on his masterpiece: Don Juan Triumphant! His opera would be the perfect trap for Christine. She would sing in it and be his. The boy wouldn't stand a chance.

He put on his outfit of Red Death and went up to the masquerade. It was in full swing as he made his entrance. They all just stood there staring. Those on the stairs fell away from him in fear. He hated the fear but loved the sense of power it gave him. The boy was down there with her, but not for long if the Phantom had his way.

"Why so silent, good messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?" He threw down the score of his Don Juan and couldn't resist giving them special _instructions_. He knew some wouldn't be followed, but his demands on Carlotta and her fool Piangi were more for the enjoyment of their public embarrassment. Then he came to Christine.

He stood there using all of his powers to call her to him. She approached and even had the nerve to smile slightly. His eyes then fell on the engagement ring around her neck. What he had seen on the roof was true then.

He yanked the ring from her neck, his eyes blazing with anger. "_Your chains are still mine_! You belong to _me_!"

Now was his time to exit. He used the trap door down into his torture chamber. As he left the chamber he saw the boy follow.

'Not now boy,' he thought. 'I will kill you, but when the time is right.' He let the boy flail about in the chamber, dropped the lasso to scare him, and then left as Mme. Giry arrived and took the boy away.

"Just try to keep them from me, woman," he whispered to himself. "But nothing can stop his disaster beyond your imagination."

* * *

It was all coming together as he planned. The Phantom had watched Christine from the shadows for a little while. She was so lost, so unsure that tonight she would go to her father's grave. Tonight she would be comforted by her Angel of Music.

He knocked out the coachman easily; he made sure not to kill him, but the frozen cold part of him didn't know why. It cried out for more death to pay for the crimes against him. Something still controlled him though. Something kept him from killing all of the fools even though he wanted to blow the opera house to the sky.

He drove Christine to the graveyard and then drove around the back out of sight. He hid on top of the Daae tomb and waited for her to make her way through the graveyard.

Her song cried through the snow for her father. The poor little thing was so confused. Her voice faded as she ended her plea, "Help me say goodbye!" Her angel then took his cue to announce his presence.

"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless."

She responded just as he hoped. She only needed a little prompting to once again surrender completely to the Angel sent by her father. Unfortunately, the boy galloped in on his horse and broke the spell the Phantom was weaving. It was time to end it.

He threw himself down over the side of the tomb. They battled, swords cutting through the frozen air. He struck the boy and blood fell, but some how the boy continued on. Then the impossible: he was thrown on the ground and his sword kicked away.

"No, Raoul! No," Christine cried out. "Not like this."

They galloped away together on the boy's mount.

'Not like _this_? How then, dear lady?' he thought. Out loud he swore: "Now let it be war upon you both!"

His opera was the final trap. It was time to end the "games" and the "fun". It was time that Christine came down the lair, never to return to the world above again… unless it was as his wife.

* * *

**Horror-Breathing Night**

* * *

Everything was prepared. He had loosened the chains for the chandelier; when he cut the rope the whole thing would drop on to the audience.

'Let's just see my noble, brave managers shrug off that disaster,' he thought with a chuckle becoming more malevolent as time went on. He watched his opera begin from the catwalks. It was so much easier now that the idiot Buquet was gone. At last Christine made her entrance and the dreadful Piangi was finished with his lines. The wretched singer didn't know how finished he was; he soon experienced the Phantom's lasso pull all of the life from him.

The Phantom pulled up his cloak to cover what was exposed of his face.

"Passarino, go away for the trap is set and waits for its prey." He walked out further on to the stage. "You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent."

He held up his hand to keep her from crying out, or something equally as stupid. She was his, and from her face she now knew it.

He continued his part of his marvellous creation of Don Juan. The passion was building between them; he could feel it. She would be his forever after tonight. All too soon they crossed the bridge, "We've passed the point of no return."

They stood there, everyone waiting. It was time for his last spell to make her his. "Lead me, save me from my solitude. Christine, that's all I ask of…"

The phrase was left unfinished as her hand yanked the mask from his face, leaving it naked for all to see. Screams came from the audience. Enough of this! Grabbing Christine, he cut the rope for the chandelier and opened the trap door beneath them.

Down they fell through the stage flames onto a large area of hay. He pulled her down through the tunnels. She struggled, but resistance at this point was futile.

They reached his lair; he threw her into the room with the wax model and told her to change. After a short while she came out spouting words at him. She had it all wrong; why couldn't she see the sadness of his fate?

"Pity comes too late. Turn around and face you fate: an eternity of _this_… before your eyes!"

"This haunted face holds no horror for me now. It's in your soul that the true distortion lies."

That should have hit him like a slap in the face, but he was too cold now, too bent on having her. He then heard splashing and noticed that the boy had come. Giry must have decided to interfere. The woman would pay for it later.

"Sir, this is indeed an unparalleled delight," he taunted, his voice dripping as much sarcasm as the boy was dripping water.

The boy screamed to free her, but that would never happen. She was _his_! The boy begged saying Christine loved him, he even begged for compassion; it was useless on the Phantom. He let the boy in, knowing the vicomte was tired. The fool had probably been caught in one of the water traps. He quickly grabbed his lasso and threw it, pulling hard.

The two struggled briefly before the boy was tied to the gate and at the Phantom's mercy. He took his cue and offered Christine her choice: the boy's death, or a marriage to the man with Death's face. The boy told her to say no, she stood there asking questions without answers, but this was all beyond the point of no return.

"You try my patience. Make your choice!" he growled.

"Pitiful creature of darkness," she said as she waded towards him. "What kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you, you are not alone!"

She reached up a kissed him long and passionately.

Memory came flooding through Erik's mind. He thought of the one who had given him handkerchiefs with the initials "O.G.". The one who had given him the monkey music box. The words written underneath the box came to him in her voice: "You give me so much. I wanted to give you something, something that will remind you of the first time we danced together. You might one day forget it."

He'd forgotten her. He had forgotten his sweet Musette. He had tossed her aside and blinded himself with obsession. Christine didn't love him. She never would. This kiss only proved that she loved the boy so much that she would give up her life for him. What had he done? He had traded grief for cold revenge. He had become hollow.

The kiss was broken. He stared at her, crying for Musette, for the pain and the waste he had made of his life. He then heard a mob approaching.

"Take her."

They could be happy together. If they weren't caught, nothing would be thought of it. They could live free. He yelled at them to take the boat and leave him. He went to the music box Musette had given him. He had betrayed her… not with Christine, maybe, but the hate towards humanity. He had forgotten her.

Christine stood before him. He looked up with one last hope that she did love him, but he knew it could not be. She pressed the ring he had stolen from her into his hand and was gone. It was over…

He would live with the pain. He might even one day compose again. But he would _never_ love. He would not risk betraying her again. His parting words were to Christine, to Musette, to love itself: "You alone can make my song take flight. It's over now… the music of the night!"

Out of grief he smashed the mirrors. One was hiding the passageway to Musette's room. He smashed it, and then walked through its threshold, letting the curtain fall behind.

It was some weeks later when Erik walked through the cemetery. He had come to apologise to Musette.

"_No one would listen_

_No one but her_

_Heard as the outcast hears…"_

The notes fell off as his tears hit the frozen ground. He heard others near by, so he quickly left.

* * *

Christine had come with Raoul a few weeks after the disaster to visit her father's grave. Madame Giry had met them on the way and joined them at Christine's invitation. As they walked through the cemetery, they spotted a familiar dark cloaked figure run away into shadows.

Christine walked to the headstone at which her former Angel had been. There lying on the snow was a white rose. Christine looked at the headstone as Raoul looked around to see if the Phantom had really gone.

"What is it, Christine?" Raoul asked coming back.

"Musette Rigaud," she said turning to Mme. Giry. "Why is that name so familiar?"

"She was part of the company when you came to the Opéra Populaire. She was to be the prima donna. She had the most beautiful voice…" Mme. Giry's shoulders slumped only a fraction of an inch, but it was enough for Christine to see the weight of sadness there.

"What happened to her?" Raoul asked.

"She died, suddenly. It was a horrible accident. She fell down a set of stairs from the roof."

"I think I remember her," Christine said. "She was the one who gave me hope that the Angel of Music would come. She said that she had…"

"Met him?" Mme. Giry finished for Christine. "Yes, she knew him. They were married just before she died. They didn't even have one night together as husband and wife."

"She married him?" Raoul sounded incredulous.

"Things were very different then," Giry responded firmly. "They were both so young."

Suddenly, Christine put pieces together. "Oh Raoul! The roof! It was where we swore our love. And he was there, I know he was there. And that's where she…" Christine couldn't finish the thought.

"Christine, this is absurd! He was a monster! He probably pushed her down the stairs because she had a new lover. Come, let's go."

They left, but Mme. Giry stayed behind.

"Forgive them," she said to the grave. "They never saw how much you and Erik loved each other. They can't know that he never would have harmed you. I'm sorry that it all happened this way. If I had known… but how could I? Forgive me. Forgive us all. I pray that you and Erik can find happiness one day."

Crossing herself, Mme. Giry left the grave and walked out of the cemetery.

Erik, watching from the shadows, sighed. He still mourned Musette's loss, but there was now a strange peace. He hardened a shell around that peace so that he would never lose it.

* * *

Years later, after Christine's death, he returned Christine's ring. It was his final gesture; he had let her go completely. The aged vicomte was there with the monkey music box Erik had lost to the scavengers. The old man left it on her grave, and he must have seen the ring with the rose. He looked around, but Erik could not face him. The vicomte left some moments later.

Erik then took the music box from the grave and went back to his lair for the first time since that night he had physically let Christine go. Though the opera was still a mess after the disaster, everything thing in the lair looked the same as when he had left it to the mob and thieves.

Everything… including the Phantom of the Opera himself.

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_Next... the story begins._


	3. The Girl With Black Hair

_If anyone is wondering if this is another story I work on, hit some writers blocks, and eventually update so slowly that it seems like I've abandoned it... the answer is no. I have the entire story completed and will update based on people's interest. So more reviews equals faster updates. And now the story begins..._  
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1981

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A century after the Great Disaster, the Opéra Populaire stood dead in the streets of Paris. Cobwebs covered most of the corners; in some places they even covered floor to ceiling. The only sound was the wind through the empty halls and the creek of the old wood. Not even squatters or drug addicts took refuge in the building. Some tried, but they were either soon found dead, or they ran from the building too scared to describe what they had seen.

Then an American rich in Texas oil came to Paris, took one look at the building, and became obsessed with bringing the opera house back from the dead and to its former glory. His pregnant wife indulged him; she liked the idea, but warned her husband of the danger. There were financial risks, yes, but her concern was not monetary. Born and raised in Louisiana, groomed in the ways of voodoo, she had a finely honed sixth sense. She warned him that she felt the ghost of old still haunted the place. If her husband was to make his dream come true, then he would have to please the ghost.

Sure enough, not long after renovations began, Henry Regal received a note lined in black and sealed with a red wax skull. The Opera Ghost sent his welcome, but added a warning that this was _his_ opera house and that he had certain demands he expected to be carried out.

Henry not only obeyed the demands because of his wife's warnings, but also was able to turn them to his advantage. The first seat in the house to be completed was the resplendent and lush Box 5. Henry left a note with a bank card telling the Ghost that the box was for the Ghost alone, and that the card was for an account that would receive monthly deposits as a salary for the Ghost's help. Of course, to make up for the money lost on the empty seat, Henry decided to make the box a main feature of a special "haunted" tour of the opera house during the day.

While the renovations were being completed—done so quickly with the Ghost's help and advice—Susanne Regal gave birth to a little girl with black hair. They were so happy to finally have a child that neither of them cared that they and all their families were blonde. Choosing a name from an old list of the Opéra Populaire's employees, they named her Musette.

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**1986

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Henry walked into the dance studio and looked around for the dark hair of his daughter. The ballet teacher approached him.

"Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm looking for my daughter, Musette," he explained. "Her mother isn't feeling well and it's the nanny's day off, so I'm the lucky guy with the daughter duties."

"_You're_ Musette's father?" The dance teacher looked hesitant.

"Yes," he answered, starting to get annoyed with the woman's tone.

"I'm sorry, it's just… Musette's mother has such fair hair, and you… well…" The woman was too flustered to continue.

He pulled out his driver's license and held it so she could see that Henry Regal did indeed have blonde hair. "This proof enough for you?"

"Please forgive me, Mr. Regal," the woman gushed her apology. "One can't be too careful these days, especially with children. And you must admit that Musette looks so little like you or your wife. I didn't think she was adopted."

"She's not." Henry was planning to change dance schools as soon as possible. "She's our own flesh and blood, and I don't take kindly to your assumptions. Now if you would kindly bring me my daughter we will leave your studio immediately."

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**1989

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Susanne held her husband's large hand in her now skeletal one. Just up the arm was one of the tubes keeping her alive for just a little longer. She didn't expect to live more than a few days at most. But before she died she had to give one last warning to her husband.

"Henry," she rasped. "I have to confess something. I have to tell you the reason why I never let Musette go to the Populaire. You cannot let her go there ever, Henry. Promise me!"

"Yes, I swear it. But why Susanne?"

"I consulted the spirits after she was born. She was so different, so special. They warned that should she ever go into the opera house, our daughter will be no more. Please, Henry, keep her far away. I don't want you to lose her when I'm gone."

"I promise. But Susanne, please answer me one thing. She is my daughter, isn't she?"

If she was anyone else, in any other family, the question might have been insulting. But Susanne understood why he asked it. "Yes, I have always been faithful, my love. I've known no other man, nor ever wished to. Remember, even though I'm gone, my love for you will never die."

* * *

**2005

* * *

**

Musette flopped on her bed with a grunt. Years of ballet, voice, and all around general art training and she was working in London in a bit part in a small, not-going-to-last-long musical. Luckily the play had only one more week, and then it would fade away as just a name on a list of things once shown at that theatre. She could only pray that no one would ever pick it up in a revival.

She wished her father would show some favouritism and get her a part in the company in his opera house. Musicals were fine, but she loved opera and had been classically trained as a soprano. But despite all the money spent on her unique education, her father never even let her try out. In fact, he had never let her so much as go inside, neither of her parents had. He had just packed her off to school and given her support to make her own way in the world.

"Have you found a new roommate yet?" Lydia asked as she walked into the room. She picked up another box and started to fill it; Musette's flatmate had decided to move in with her boyfriend.

"No," Musette said while turning on her side to watch Lydia pack. "I'm not even sure if I want to stay here in London. I've been trying to get a job for when this musical finally ends, but… I think I just need to get out of London for a while."

Her friend looked at her sympathetically. "What about Archie? Are you just going to leave him? I thought for sure that he was going to propose to you soon, especially when you won't do it without a wedding ring."

Musette didn't answer. Her roommate was obsessed with sex, and just didn't understand that Musette had never felt ready, that before Archie she had never met anyone she wanted to know intimately. Archie had been very understanding and took on his own personal vow of chastity until marriage. But for her, "waiting until marriage" had been just a way to hide that she just didn't want to. She still didn't want to, but marriage would probably change that.

"When he proposes what will your answer be?"

"Yes, I guess. I do love him," Musette said.

"Then get him to propose and move in with him already."

But Musette suddenly got an idea. Working at the Opéra Populaire would alert her father and he'd make sure she left, but if she only lived there he'd never know and she could be around opera more. "I could move to Paris. Some of the company and workers live _in_ the opera house. As the owner's daughter I'm sure they'd let me have a room. I think I'll write to the manager and see if he's willing. And if Archie loves me, he'll understand."

* * *

"You want to move to Paris?" Archie repeated slowly.

"Yes," Musette said as they walked around the paths in Hyde Park.

"Why? I mean, what brought this on? Is it me? Did I do something wrong? You don't have to run away if you don't want us to be together anymore."

"No, it's not that, Archie. I just need to get away from London for a while, and Paris feels like the place to go."

"That's true enough," Archie said as he mulled over the idea. "Paris is the city of artists, so it only makes sense that you spend some time there. If you need a little while away to get your inspiration back, then I think you should go. I can always try to sneak away for a bit and visit you."

"Yes, I'd like that."

They were silent for a few moments.

"You know what," Archie said. "Let's go out to dinner before you leave. Somewhere really posh. We'll get all dressed up, I'll spend more of my father's money than he would like, and we'll have one big special night to send you off."

"Sure, I think I have something I could wear."

"Something you could wear? Musey, you sometimes are the strangest girl. Go and buy something new. This isn't a dinner that you'd wear just anything to."

"But I already have a dress, and I've only worn it a couple of times."

"Muse, it's not like you don't have the money for a new dress. I want you to go out and get something spectacular. Your father, you know, would only be too happy to give you more money for it. Don't you remember what he said that time we saw him for the Fellinthorpe auction? He wanted to increase your allowance, but you insisted you didn't need it just to be modest. Stop playing at being modest and go get yourself something special. Blimey, any other guy would have to tell his bird the exact opposite."

Archie continued to then talk about a party for work that he went to and some of the hideous gowns that the women were wearing. He also complained about the French caterer, the music not even fit to play in a lift, and the number of people in too small a space. It was his usual list of complaints. Archie rarely had anything truly original to say about the work parties, but to be fair, nothing original ever really happened at them.

* * *

Musette was tired but also joyful when she came back to her flat from hiring movers to take the now boxed contents of her flat to Paris. Everything was going well. She had her ticket for the Eurostar the next day and everything was set. And it had only taken three weeks; Musette had expected it to take closer to five or six. But everything had worked out well. The play ended, she got all the legal paperwork done faster than anticipated, and it had not taken too long to box everything so that it was ready to move.

Then she saw the garment bag hanging on the nail she used for her Christmas wreath on her front door. She grabbed it took it inside. Musette read the note, already guessing who it was from.

_My little Muse_

_Tonight's the night! I've got our big soiree all planned. You're in for a great night of superb food and only the best music. With Lydia's help I got your dress size and bought this little knock-out. Can't wait to see it! Be ready by eight._

_Archie_

Musette looked at the clock. It was only four, but after spending days packing and going around the city finding the people to help her move, she was very tired and if she was to go out she wanted something simple and casual. She hoped Archie had at least spent the money on a quiet, private table.

Musette then opened the bag to look at the dress. It was an off-white satin, floor length, backless, and largely resembled a slip rather than a dress. It had the potential look of a pretty red carpet-worthy dress, but she didn't really care for it. Added to the fault of not being her style, it was completely unflattering when she tried it on in an effort just to see if she could make it work. It had no support, was badly fitted, and the crossing strips of a slightly darker satin left a diamond shape on her stomach that refused to lie flat and insisted on bubbling out.

Instead of wearing the confused undergarment as she decided to call it, Musette pulled out her dark grey-green, knee-length sleeveless sheath. She really liked the dress, but had only had two occasions before to wear it.

At fifteen past eight the doorbell rang. Musette was more than ready to go and so walked out and locked the door behind her. Archie stood blocking the step when she turned to walk down the stairs to the street.

"What?" she asked.

"Aren't you going to invite me in for drinks first?" Archie asked it like his question was completely obvious.

"You said to be ready by eight. It's eight twenty and I don't want to be late."

"But you're not ready."

"Yes, I am."

"No, Muse. You aren't wearing the dress I sent over. I thought you were going to invite me in, fix me a drink and change while I waited."

"No, and I'm not going to wear that thing. It's lingerie, not a dress, and it looks horrible. Is there anything wrong with this dress?"

"No," he said grudgingly. But he then smiled and kissed her cheek. "You look lovely. I just wish you could have worn the other one."

"You can take back the other dress. Now we don't want to be late for dinner," she reminded him.

When they got to the restaurant Musette was still very anxious that they had missed their reservation, but they miraculously made it only a little late so they were still on time. The table Archie had reserved was not private, but in the middle of the tables lining the dance floor and close to the string quartet. Musette had no idea why they were so close to the open floor as Archie had always said that he didn't like to dance. He refused anytime she asked. She never understood it; he took fencing, so his footwork couldn't be that bad. As soon as they were seated Musette expected to see a menu, but it never came.

"Archie, how are we going to order without a menu?" she asked.

"I ordered ahead of time when I made the reservation," Archie said offhand while he looked around the crowded room.

When the meal came it was obvious that it was going to be a long, several course affair with expensive delicacies. Sure enough, lobsters and the most expensive cut of steak would be served later on. Musette felt awkward picking at her food from the appetizers to the main course and wasting so much food. Archie picked up on it eventually.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"There's a lot of shellfish," she said. When he didn't react, she continued. "I'm allergic to shellfish."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Musey. I forgot."

He looked very chagrined over it, but Musette assured him it was fine and that there was enough of everything else for her. He seemed to brighten again. They finally finished the meal. The quartet had expanded into a small chamber orchestra and the whole room was filled with people; many were dancing out on the floor despite the uncomfortable warmth of the room. Musette wished that carrying a fan was still part of essential fashion.

A waiter came and started taking away the last of the plates before the inevitable dessert course. Archie suddenly stood up after one song stopped and the orchestra was turning the pages on their stands to the next song. Musette for one moment thought that finally Archie would ask her to dance. Instead, a violinist came to the table as Archie bent down on one knee beside Musette. The whole room was watching them. The violinist started playing "Clair de Lune" and in the background the orchestra joined in. Archie pulled a small box out of his jacket pocket and opened it. There was a large princess cut diamond set in a gold band.

"Musette Regal," Archie started, his voice loud, "I've loved you for a while now, I think you know. For as long as we love each other, I want to spend that time with you. Will you marry me?"

Musette froze. Everyone was watching, waiting. The violinist was still playing, smiling at her. The waiter had stopped and stood to watch them, Musette's barely touched plate of food held in his hands. Archie held the ring out and the shine off the diamond hit her eyes. Archie's taste in jewellery was no better than his taste in clothes; the ring was not one she would have chosen. None of this was how she would have chosen.

But she tried to push the disappointment of the moment aside and focus on the question. Did she want to be Archie's wife? She couldn't think of anyone else she would want to marry, anyone who would want her. No one else had ever asked. She did love Archie. One bad evening was no reason to say no.

But as she nodded yes and he slipped the too-large ring on her finger, Musette had a sinking feeling in her stomach. She wondered if she had made the right choice.

* * *

_Up next... arrival in Paris and some "ghostly" encounters._


	4. Paris Ghosts

A cab pulled up to the back entrance of the Opéra Populaire. Musette got out and walked into the building. It wasn't far to the manager's office. She knocked and heard a voice telling her to come in.

"Bonjour M. Leclerke," Musette said in greeting.

"Mademoiselle Regal, bienvenu à l'Opéra Populaire," he walked around his desk and kissed both her cheeks.

"Merci millefois pour…"

"No, no, no thanks, mademoiselle. Your father does own the place after all, so it's no trouble finding a space for you. There are several rooms you could look at. Where are you staying now, if I can ask?"

"The Hotel France Albion. But I hope I won't be there long."

"No, our workmen work fast. They'll fix up whatever room you pick in just a few days. I'll have my assistant give you a tour of the place."

Musette was then introduced to a young man with dark hair and a Middle Eastern complexion, M. Leclerke's assistant Alexander Diab. He stared at her with an open mouth for a few moments, but he shook it off.

"If you'll just follow me, Miss Regal," he said.

"Please, just call me Musette."

"Alex," he said with a smile and a nod. "Are you ready for a tour of this place? It's a big place," he warned.

"I've been sitting for hours on a train and then in a cab. I think I'm up for a bit of a walk."

"Right then. Prima Donna dressing room this way. It's a good place to start, and our prima donna, Katherina Stella, refuses to use it."

"Why?"

"The Ghost haunts it. He haunts most of the place, and we have a tour to indulge any ghost hunters."

Musette had a bit of a chill, but laughed it off.

From the prima donna suite, a room decked out with rose patterns and expensive fabrics, Alex took her to the stage to look at the house seats from the actors' point of view. They then hopped down from the stage and went out to the lobby. He took her through some of the boxes, and then back to the backstage.

"We can now go to the dormitories, the practice rooms, the costume rooms, the cellars, whatever you want," Alex offered.

"I think first I want to find a room. Definitely not the prima donna suite. The décor alone is just too…"

"Ornate? Gaudy?"

"Pink."

Alex laughed. "You know, I think I have just the room for you. It will need some work for the bathroom, but it just might suit you."

"Lead on," Musette said.

Alex took her up what seemed several flights of stairs. He pointed out the various dormitories and storage rooms as they passed, and then took her down one hall, around a corner, down a few steps to a door tucked away in the odd little hall.

Alex put a hand on the wall to the right. "This is just a small storage room, but it's next to the room, and plumbing should already pass through it, so I think it can easily be turned into a bathroom for you."

"Sure, sounds good."

Then he opened the door and let her walk in first. Musette stopped only a few steps into the room.

It was perfect.

The walls were a warm off-white colour and the floor was a cherry coloured wood. There was a fireplace, a large bed, and what looked like it must be a vanity under a white sheet. To the left of the door were a couple of steps leading up to a raised reading nook with shelves of books, two chairs, a table, and a large cupboard. Everything was covered in dust and white sheets. Finally moving about in the room she noticed doors to the outside from both the far right wall and the nook on the upper left.

"I'll have them clean the chimney so you can have a fire to keep warm. The plumbing comes this far, but not the central heating or electricity. It does still have the gas lamps though, and they can turn on and off just like light bulbs. There's a balcony off there, and then up here," he walked up into the nook, "leads to another bit of balcony, and then around to a door which is the only way to reach one staircase leading to the roof."

"So through my room is the only way to get to the roof?"

"No, just that one particular staircase leading to the roof. There are others… wait, does this mean you want to have this room?"

"Yes, it's… it's perfect. It almost feels like I've come home."

"Must mean it's the one then. I'll have the workmen start today."

* * *

It surprisingly only took a week for her new suite to be ready. Even with putting in the bath and sink, filling in the doorway and cutting a new door from her room, cleaning the chimney, dusting everything, setting the furniture to rights, and putting new sheets on the bed, Musette moved into her new place by the next week.

* * *

Alex looked behind him for the sixth time to make sure he wasn't being followed. It was bad enough navigating the cellars without worrying about some poor fellow dying just because he was too curious for his own good. As Alex was turning to look back a seventh time he bumped into something. Panicked that he had inadvertently walked into a trap, he turned and was almost relieved to see the dark outfit and white mask that under any other circumstance would cause terror in a worker at the Opéra Populaire.

"Oh, it's just you," Alex said as he held a hand over his racing heart.

"You needed to see me?" The voice was cold and always carried a sardonic edge.

"Yeah, I needed to warn you that the owner's daughter is now living in the Populaire."

"Why would I care about Mlle. Regal?"

"Because she's staying in the room belonging to your prima donna."

"If Madame Stella doesn't want it, why should I…"

"No, not that one. The other one… um… the one that never really was prima donna." Alex brought up a hand to fiddle with his collar, fully prepared to raise it an inch or two more in self-defence.

Instead of striking with the lasso, the Phantom's next words were deadly calm. "Who put her there?"

"Um, I did," Alex practically squeaked. But he regained his voice to continue. "Just look at her and you'll see why."

"That room belongs to no woman but my—"

"Her name is Musette," Alex interrupted. "Her name is Musette Regal. And I really think you need to just see her for yourself."

* * *

Late that night the Phantom snuck through the secret passage into the room of Musette Regal. He saw the girl sleeping fitfully. She looked cold as she tossed and turned on the bed. But there was no mistaking that beautiful face and the dark hair. He stared at her for a moment, not quite believing what he saw. The Phantom left the room, but he returned shortly and placed a thick blanket over the girl. As he did he noticed an unattractively modern engagement ring on her left hand. He brushed a gloved hand over a curl on her face. She stilled with his touch but slept on. He would keep an eye on this girl.

Before he left, he placed a single white rose with a black ribbon on the bedside table. There was a picture of her with a young man. With any luck, he'd be out of the frame soon… and Erik would be in full focus.

* * *

Musette slept late that morning. Since coming to Paris she hadn't been sleeping well. She kept having disturbing dreams that made her toss around in her sleep and wake up every hour or so. The same happened last night; not only the dreams plagued her, but she was cold and didn't have anymore blankets.

But sometime in the night she had fallen properly asleep. She was glad for that and wasn't going to question it until she noticed a thick blanket covering her and the bed. It was a beautiful green with gold vines embroidered over it. It definitely wasn't there when she had gone to bed.

Unsettled she turned to get out of bed. There on the table was a white rose tied with a black ribbon.

* * *

Wanting to take a break from acting and singing, Musette decided to put her art degree to use and took her camera around the city to find inspiration. Paris was the ideal city for artists after all.

She tried to tell herself that spending the day away from the opera house had nothing to do with the rose and blanket that had been mysteriously left in her room in the middle of the night. She also tried to ignore the fact that the door to her room had been locked. It was easier to deal with that way.

High on her list of places to visit was the great cathedral Notre Dame de Paris. While walking towards it and looking at the bell towers, ideas swirled through her head for a set of paintings based on Victor Hugo's story. A deformed man with an exotic woman set against a Gothic building was the epitome of the Romantic style. There was something appealing about it especially to Musette. It was mostly the love so passionate and consuming that Quasimodo gave up his own life to be with Esmeralda in death. She wished she could know that kind of a love. Sure it more than bordered on the obsessive, but she really didn't have a problem with that. It was captivating.

A different feeling came over her when she went inside. Instead of walking along the aisle with the tourists, she sat down towards the back and looked up at the tiers of Gothic arches and the lines of chandeliers along the nave. It was dark without much light from the windows and only the fake candles of the chandeliers. But the dark was magnificent; the place was so big from floor to ceiling.

She couldn't describe how she felt. She tried to think about Esmeralda singing her Ave Maria Païen from the musical version, but instead she felt like there should be something else. There should be an opera aria or a powerful requiem with music that swept the listener away. It should start with an organ, then the soprano would come in, and then they would be joined by a choir. It would build so that the cathedral vibrated with the music of the ringing of the stones.

She was getting poetical to the point of being ridiculous.

Musette left the building and found a place outside to sit and sketch some ideas for the Victor Hugo series she had considered earlier. While she was sketching, a small group of English students passed her. One of them asked if any in the group knew if Notre Dame was haunted. Musette didn't hear the answer.

_People and their fascination with ghosts_, Musette thought. She didn't want to believe in them, and the idea of them frightened her a little.

After finishing her sketches and grabbing some lunch, Musette spent the rest of the afternoon at the Musée Rodin. After going through the building and looking at the sculptures she admired, she took her camera around the rose gardens outside. She focused on the beautiful pinks, yellows, oranges, and reds. She couldn't bring herself to take any pictures of the white roses she passed.

Ghosts and white roses. Even away from the opera house they haunted her. Yet to avoid returning to the Populaire even longer, Musette had dinner at a small café and then finally went back. As she passed Alex's small office, the door was open. She paused in the doorway.

"Oh!" he said nervously when he saw her. "You startled me, Musette."

"Sorry," she said.

"Can I help you with anything?"

"No," she said shaking her head, but still she stayed standing there. He waited. "Yes," she said. "I woke up this morning and found a blanket and a rose in my bedroom that weren't there when I went to sleep. The door was locked. I can't explain it, and that scares me."

"Um… sounds like the Phantom," Alex said.

"A ghost that leaves blankets and roses?" She sounded sceptical.

"Yup," Alex said and tried to laugh it off. "The Phantom's known for… um… leaving and receiving things. There's a salary given to him and a box left empty for him. Small amounts of money are then left by him in the box for the box attendant and the cleaning staff, and notes with instructions left in my office. The construction workers who renovated this place say the Phantom even did some of the renovations himself. And if an opera pleases the Phantom, he leaves a rose in his box."

"You're making all that up," Musette said.

"No, and I don't know if I wish I was or not. Um…don't worry about it too much; you'll get used to it. As far as anyone has seen, the Phantom is helpful, friendly, and not anything to fear… as long as we meet his occasional demands." The last part was muttered, but she heard it.

Musette just looked at him like he was crazy. But then she thought about theatre superstitions and the blanket. It did make some sort of sense. And none of it seemed to have any malevolent intent. She said goodnight to Alex and went up to her room. A friendly ghost was explanation enough, but she thought she had best just not think about it anymore for her own piece of mind. If she kept worrying about it she'd drive herself crazy.

* * *

Once again Musette was caught in a nightmare while she slept. It was both frustrating and especially frightening because she couldn't make out any of the images clearly. She knew she was in a snow-covered cemetery. Nearby two figures were fighting, probably with swords, while a third figure watched. She had no idea who the people were or what it all meant, but she felt terribly strong emotions: fear, longing, utter anguish, and a guilt tinted with regret.

It was so cold; she shivered uncontrollably. She felt tears coming down her face as one of the fighting figures fell. She wished it would come into focus so she could see who it was, but it became even more blurred.

The dream faded to grey and ended as Musette drifted into a deeper, dreamless sleep.

* * *

He couldn't resist seeing her again.

The Phantom knew his gifts had unnerved Musette, but hopefully Alex would explain that she needn't be afraid. Besides, the room was cold and he couldn't just let her shiver like that. He entered her room and noticed that again it was very cold. Though there was the fireplace, the room could use an additional heat source. He would design something for her. He went to the bed and noticed that the blanket he had given her had fallen to the floor beside the bed, so she was once again shivering. She also seemed to be having a nightmare again, and there were tears on her cheeks. He pulled the green blanket over her and gently wiped the tears away. Once again she stilled and did not wake.

He thought it might disturb her further, but he decided to leave her another white rose. He couldn't yet bring himself to face her, but he wanted to let her know he existed and that he was watching over her. Soon Musette would see him, and soon he would have her back with him.

* * *

When Alex arrived in his office there was a familiar black-lined note sealed with a red skull. Couldn't the Phantom come up with anything new? Grumbling under his breath about 19th century ghosts, Alex opened and read the note.

_It has come to my attention that Mlle. Musette Regal's apartment is too cold at night. I will soon send you the plans for a new heating system that will ensure safe warmth. Do not tell Mlle. Regal of my involvement. In the meantime, see that she has more blankets._

_O.G._

Alex wasn't sure how he felt about this, but he knew the history and didn't dare refuse the Phantom. Plus, he had his orders from M. Leclerke. He had hoped that the Phantom would leave her alone; Alex had seen her engagement ring. He had only told the Phantom about her being there because it was better to tell him now than have him find out later… better for Alex, anyway. But at the same time, he knew the history. He could only trust that Musette could handle herself and all that was to come.

In the meantime, he had blankets to get and a lie to tell.

* * *

By mid morning Musette left the opera house. Alex had brought her more blankets while she was finishing her breakfast and said that he had contacted someone on how to get safe heating for the room. He seemed uncomfortable about something, but she had begun to notice that he was usually on edge about something. She put it down to the stress of his job.

Though she didn't want to admit it, Musette was relieved to have an excuse to stay away from the opera house during the day. She spent the day wandering around Paris just along the Seine. She occasionally saw tourists rushing about from museum to museum. It was such a shame. They missed so much of the beauty and atmosphere of the city. At least she could enjoy it. She enjoyed the walk so much that she just kept going, only stopping for lunch and then dinner. Eventually she was too tired to go on any further and took the Métro back to the Populaire.

That night she dreamt of screams and fire. She awoke coughing and breathing heavily sometime around three in the morning and tried to fall asleep again. She feared that the nightmare about falling would come. That dream terrified her the most and seemed to come every night. Luckily no more nightmares plagued her when she did finally sleep.

The next morning was there was no rose on her bedside table. She should have been relieved, but somehow, as she looked at the two she kept in a vase she was disappointed not have a third. It was just as inexplicable as keeping the roses in a vase rather than throwing them out. She just couldn't do it, despite how it unnerved her.

She couldn't wait for Archie to come. He had been so kind and understanding about her need to go to Paris for a while. He had to settle some things with his father and the family business, and then he would join her in Paris to start planning the wedding. It was nice to take a break and be away from him, but she was sure that the familiarity of his company would help her nervousness to dissipate.

Everything was too overwhelming and she needed to get out and clear her head. She decided to go to the one place she knew she would find peace: Père Lachaise Cemetery.

The cemetery was so large that a person could spend days wandering around it and still not see all of it. Ironically the same was often said of the Louvre Museum, and most tourists preferred to spend their time there. But Musette liked cemeteries. Anyone could admire a painting well-framed on a museum wall, but it took more than that to love a cemetery. One had to see the beauty of death. There was a quiet peace to it, a serenity not found in the even the Mona Lisa's smile. Too many crowded around her for there to be peace, and still she smiled. It took a certain type of soul to look at death and smile. Musette had that soul. She also had a tendency to wax poetical to the point of self-centred nonsense on the subject.

Added to the peace and beauty, Père Lachaise was a city within a city: the city of the dead with streets and houses. Musette liked the irony and the quiet artistry of the house-like tombs, mausoleums, avenues, and statues. Also ironic was the fact that though scared by an unseen ghost in an opera house she fled to a cemetery filled with the dead to feel better. But at the opera house she felt like she was being watched. The cemetery didn't have that feeling.

For the next week Musette only stayed in the Populaire to sleep at night. Even after a heating system so ingenious that she didn't understand it had been put in place, Musette avoided the building and resisted the urge to explore its hidden corridors or watch the rehearsals. During the day she continued re-exploring Paris, always spending time in Père Lachaise.

One of her favourite of the tombs was the hooded figures and owls guarding the _Sepulture Racine_. She also loved visiting the tomb of Pierre Abélard.

Musette was near Abélard's tomb one day when it started raining. She pulled out her umbrella and decided not to let the rain force her indoors. Like cemeteries, she felt that few stopped to appreciate the beauty of the world covered in grey shadow from the clouds and rain. As she came around the tomb she could have sworn that she saw a woman in a grey cloak and nineteenth century dress some feet away. The woman had Slavic features and moved like a dancer. Just when the two women looked at each other, the woman in the grey cloak vanished. It was almost as if she hadn't been quite solid and just fell away with the rain. Musette walked towards where the woman had stood, but she saw no one anywhere near there. She turned around to leave and passed an old man with an umbrella looking at Abélard's tomb.

"A tragic love story," the Frenchman said.

"Yes," Musette agreed as they both looked at the carvings of Abélard and his wife Héloïse.

"There are many that are even more tragic. Paris is full of their ghosts."

"I suppose that as the city of lovers, it would see its share of the heartbreaks as well."

"C'est ça exactement," he replied. "Paris is just as much the City of the Dead as it is the City of Lights. But why is a pretty young lady here listening to an old man's morbid ramblings in the rain?"

"I like it here, and I like the rain. It's beautiful when it rains, and no one stops to see that."

The old man chuckled. "Learn your ghost stories then, if that is how you enjoy life. Adieu, mademoiselle."

"Au revoir."

Musette did not stay long after that meeting. She decided it was time to stop avoiding things and learn one ghost story at least: the ghost of the Opéra Populaire.

* * *

_Next... Musette meets the Phantom._


	5. Haunting History

_Yes, there is a bit in this chapter taken from the end of the 1989 Phantom of the Opera. And yes, though this fits with movie canon, I had to change the date of the movie for historical purposes. The movie is set in the late summer of 1870 to January of 1871—the exact time of the Siege of Paris. The opera would not have been so successful or (relatively) carefree about filling the house. So I moved it up a decade to when the stage musical originally was set.

* * *

_

* * *

Musette walked into Alex's office looking wet and as if she had been walking for a while.

"Alex, I was wondering if there was any documentation of the legends about the ghost. I'd like to learn about it, when it first appeared, who it might be, where it's been seen—you know, that sort of stuff."

Alex looked surprised and a bit nervous. "Y-you want to know about the g-ghost. Um… um why?"

"Just curious," she said dismissively. "You said that the prima donna's dressing room is haunted specifically. Any ideas why? Should I start there?"

"Um, y-yeah, I… um, said that… I think. Um…"

"Alex, stop um-ing. Why are you so nervous?"

"The Ghost… doesn't… like… people looking for him. He tends to make sure… they meet a… a bad end."

"I'm not looking _for_ him; I'm looking for things _about _him. And how do you know it's a him?"

"That's just the story."

"So it's not the ghost of some prima donna out to end the career of any star that incurs her jealousy?"

"N-no. No, he's a… deformed genius that wears a mask." Alex was nervously looking around his office. "I'll get you what I can. What do you want specifically?"

"Anything," Musette answered. "Everything you've got. Journals, newspaper clippings, anything that mentions him or about the people that saw him. Does all of that even exist?"

"Oh y-yeah. The library here has all the records. And I think someone… someone might have researched him and put it all together a few years ago. Your parents ordered it done when they restored the opera house."

"Really?" She seemed a little confused, but only for a moment. "Well, thank you, Alex. I hope it's not too much trouble."

Alex watched her leave and nervously looked around again. Just as he was starting to relax he felt a presence behind him.

"She wants to learn about me?" the Phantom almost sounded amused.

"A-are you… um… okay with that?" Alex asked.

"Alex, I repeat what Mlle. Regal said: stop um-ing. And yes, give her what she wants."

"And if she decides to go looking for you?"

"Then she'll find me."

* * *

As she sat in her room by a large fire, Musette was pleased to find that a professional historian had done all the work of researching and assembling the history of the opera ghost. He had been extremely thorough in searching out _everything_ to put together the pieces of the puzzle of the Phantom of the Opera.

The record started with the descriptions of the ghost from the people living and working at the Populaire during the last half of the nineteenth century. A series of almost childish pranks started around 1858 and were attributed to a ghost since no other source could be found. Added to which, theatre people were very superstitious and all theatres gained a ghost one way or another. By 1869 there was a description given by a stagehand and a couple of ballerinas: a man in evening clothes, cloak, and a white mask. This description, the historian noted, was the most consistent and probably accurate. There was another popular description about the ghost having yellow skin that looked like parchment stretched over his skull, glowing yellow eyes, and no nose. Musette thought the description was similar to Mary Shelley's monster—just with no nose, no hair, and shorter. This seemed less likely to be true.

But if the ghost was disfigured, there was documentation of a travelling fair of gypsies camping near the newly built Opéra Populaire in 1857. The fair consisted mostly of fortune tellers and freaks. There was even a report in the newspaper of one gypsy who was strangled to death and an escaped freak that was never found. There wasn't anything about the freak other than it was a small creature called "The Devil's Child."

1870-71's information left Musette extremely unsettled. That was when the ghost first started truly to appear and begin his mode of operations. He was known for sending notes, making demands both monetary and artistic. The manager of the time, M. Joannot-Dupuis, kept a journal of his decisions and management of the opera house. All of the managers did this. He found the ghost's demands helpful and reasonable, and had no problem with paying the ghost for his help, advice, and protection. He believed that since his workers and performers were so superstitious that a helpful ghost haunting the place would be seen as bringing luck and make the performances better. When the prima donna retired, a new one was hired from the chorus based on the Phantom's recommendation. Her name was Musette Rigaud—the name the Regals had decided to give their daughter. Had they done so because the last name was so similar?

Another odd thing was that no one had expected Rigaud's appointment as prima donna, and there were several accounts (letters and diaries from members of the company at the time) saying that everyone suspected that the ghost was her teacher and vocal coach. But Rigaud never performed. She died just a few days before what would have been her debut. Instead, the understudy Emma Fursch-Madi made her own debut in Gounod's _Faust_.

The account of the death gave Musette the chills. Rigaud was found on the stairs leading from her private room to the roof. She had apparently fallen; the fall broke several ribs, one of which pierced a lung and killed her. Musette shivered as she sat in her chair and grabbed the poker to stir the fire. She thought about how Alex had said one of her balconies led to the stairs to the roof. She couldn't have taken Musette Rigaud's room as well as her name, could she?

After that death, there were many changes in the opera house. M. Joannot-Dupuis retired. The prima ballerina Irinushka Feodorovna suddenly refused to stay and went to London without any explanation. The historian also left a note that just before the death marked the promotion of Mme. Antoinette Giry from assistant to full ballet mistress, and that the recently orphaned daughter of the violinist Gustave Daaé came to the opera house and started training. While this had no current meaning, the historian noted, these people played large roles in the ghost's history later on.

The ghost seemed to disappear for a short time, but when he reappeared he was more terrible than ever. The pranks became dangerous "accidents," the demands grew, and everyone seemed more afraid of him than before. Managers seemed to come and go rather quickly, and all remarked on the tension backstage and the fear of the Phantom.

But it was ten years later that the disasters came. For three years prior the worst of the accidents focused on the diva Carlotta Giudicelli. Once again the management changed: this time from M. Lefevre to Mssrs. Firmin and André. Their first complaint was the ballet mistress's idea that there was a Phantom that demanded payment and a free box—they dismissed Mme. Giry's warnings. When La Carlotta finally missed a performance, Christine Daaé took her place. The managers wrote several more complaints about threatening notes from "O.G.", most of them concerning Mlle. Daaé. They also wrote in the manager's journal about the affair between Mlle. Daaé and the patron, the Vicomte de Chagny. When they finally acknowledged that the Phantom did exist, they noted that he had a jealous and obsessive fixation on the young soprano.

When the managers first defied the Phantom's demands, La Carlotta lost her voice during a performance of _Il Muto_. Later during that same performance, a stagehand named Buquet fell onto the stage after having been strangled to death with a rope. Things then quieted down, until the New Year's Masquerade Ball. The Phantom appeared as Red Death and ordered the managers to perform an opera he had written. Accounts from both performers and audience members described the Phantom's _Don Juan Triumphant_ as grotesque, indecent, and the worst opera in existence. During the performance, Mlle. Daaé was kidnapped off the stage by the Phantom. While he took her, he dropped the great chandelier on the audience and it set the whole place on fire. A mob went into the cellars of the opera house to drive out the Phantom, but while they found a mysterious house on the underground lake, there was no sign of the Phantom or Mlle. Daaé. She soon reappeared when she married the Vicomte.

The damage to the Populaire was never repaired, and it continued to decay and fall apart. There were stories from squatters that fled the site about unnatural things happening there. No one stayed or survived a night in the ruined building. The historian wrote that he suspected they were victims of themselves and their own imaginations. He believed the "ghost" to actually have been a man, a genius of illusion and music. He probably left or died soon after the performance of his opera in 1881.

But when Henry Regal bought and restored the building, notes and unusual occurrences started again. The historian refused to speculate more than it was a copycat or a stunt to continue the idea of the ghost for the superstitious of the company.

Musette then looked through a separate book of photos and drawings from the time. There were pictures of the people from 1871 and 1881. La Carlotta looked just as over-the-top as the records made her seem. Christine and Raoul de Chagny were a very handsome couple in their wedding photo. She was very pretty and looked younger than her eighteen years.

Musette gasped at the drawing of Irinushka Feodorovna. She looked like the woman Musette had seen in the cemetery. Musette looked for a picture of the woman she was named after. There wasn't one. She looked back at the copy of the newspaper clipping reporting Mlle. Rigaud's death. It looked like there should have been a picture just next to the article. She wondered why the picture hadn't been included. Musette made a note of the date of the paper and looked at the clock. It was too late to go to the library and see if they had a copy of the paper.

Musette looked through the copied entries from Mssrs. Firmin and André again. They wrote that the morning after Mlle. Daaé's performance in _Hannibal_ the Vicomte de Chagny said that she had disappeared from her locked dressing room. He also claimed to hear a strange voice through the door. They didn't explain that any further, but they did mention that Mlle. Daaé was missing until the afternoon when Mme. Giry announced her return.

This ignited Musette's curiosity. There was something about that room from the very beginning. How did Mlle. Daaé disappear from the dressing room if the Vicomte knew she was in the room and it was locked? Musette decided to go and see the room again.

She went down to the prima donna dressing room. Usually it was locked, but Musette tried it anyway. It opened. She walked in and closed the door behind her. She looked around at the antique furniture and the vanity. The staff kept the room just as it would have been in 1881 for the tours offered during the summer tourist season. She turned from the vanity and looked at the large mirror without moving. Something about the mirror frightened her; it was almost as if she was being watched. Trying to ignore the feeling, she picked up a brush from the vanity and looked at it closely.

"Musette," a voice echoed in the room.

"Gah!" Musette screamed as she jumped and dropped the brush. She looked around, but no one was in the room. Losing the last of her courage, Musette ran out of the room. She ran right into Alex.

"Musette!" he said as he helped her regain her balance after colliding into him. "You look like you've… did you see the ghost? I told you not to go looking for him."

"I didn't see him," Musette said. "But I think I just heard him."

"What did he say?"

"Just my name. How does he know my name?" She paused as she remembered the research and the odd coincidence of have such a similar name. "No, no, no! I'm not her! I can't be."

Alex watched as she ran away and in the direction that would lead up to her room.

"I hope you heard that," Alex said to the still open door to the dressing room, knowing that he wasn't entirely alone. There was no response.

* * *

The next morning Musette rushed out of the opera house and passed workmen just outside. She practically ran to the Métro and only slowed down once she was on the platform waiting for the next train. She paced nervously, watched by a homeless man in ragged clothes who seemed to find her movements interesting. With relief Musette got on the train and rode it to the station for the library. In less than half of an hour she walked into the library.

Being the Opéra Populaire's owner's daughter and raised speaking French had their advantages. With a little help and a tale of researching the history of her opera house, Musette quickly located the original newspaper article. There was indeed a sketch of the deceased next to the article. Musette didn't know what she was expecting. She had the same name and even suspected she had the same room. Her throat went dry when she saw that she also had the same face.

It had to be pure coincidence.

* * *

After leaving the library Musette wandered around Paris trying to sort everything out in her mind. It took even more effort to return to the opera house than it did after she had found the roses left in her room. She almost went to a priest to see if he could bless her room so that the ghost couldn't enter. But exorcisms never went well and just trying usually led to even worse consequences. After all, even the priest died in the movie.

A few days later she wandered around Montmartre. She was buying a quick snack when someone called to get her attention. It was a lady dressed as a gypsy running a small fortune-telling shop just across the street.

"Mademoiselle," the woman called. Musette crossed the small street but kept a few feet distant. The woman looked into Musette's face as if searching for something. She then nodded. "Just as I thought."

"What?" Musette asked, disturbed by the odd woman.

"You are marked, mademoiselle," she said. "You are marked and he will take you."

"Who will? What do you mean 'take' me?"

"The one who is cursed. You have his mark on you. He waits for your return, and you cannot escape it now."

Musette walked away quickly. That night she decided not to return to the Populaire. She went shopping for nightclothes and an outfit for the next day. Then she went to a hotel and got a room for the night. As she went to bed she thought that it was time to return to London and Archie. She felt a terrible coward for running from the ghost, but it scared her too much to stay.

* * *

Musette walked through the halls of the Opéra Populaire. She saw no one, and the whole place was too quiet. She came to the backstage area and looked around the scenes to see the stage. Smoke and fire blocked her view of the stage and all she could hear were screams.

She ran from that area and all was eerily silent again. She slowed as she turned a corner and crossed the hall that led down to the diva's dressing room. She could hear a man yelling and pounding on a door, but still she kept running.

She passed a mirror and saw that she wore a nineteenth century white ballet practice gown. It looked like it was taken out of a Degas painting. It had the full short skirt, the bodice and small sleeves, the thick dark blue sash tied around the waist, and the black ribbon around her throat. She stopped and stared at herself before running down into the chapel. She spun and looked at the painted walls and the candles, but she couldn't make herself move out of the room. She heard a man singing, but she couldn't hear the words. The singing stopped, but she somehow just knew that he was near.

"Musette." It was the same voice from the dressing room.

"No, no," she cried softly.

"Musette, come back. Come back to me."

She turned around trying to see the owner of the voice, but there was nothing but candles and shadows. She grabbed the candles and threw them to the ground. Things around her shifted and she was throwing a tall candelabrum into a mirror. She screamed as the glass shattered around her.

"Musette, come back."

* * *

Musette awoke in a cold sweat. Unlike so many of her recent dreams, she could remember every detail. Though it scared her half to death, there was something about that voice. Part of her did want to go back and find him… whoever he was. She knew it was the ghost, but what sort of phantom was he? She had seen enough movies with reincarnation to think of it as an explanation, but she refused to believe that it was possible. She couldn't be the same Musette that had died over a century before.

Though the thought made her stomach feel thick and heavy, she decided to go back to London.

* * *

Despite her decision to leave Paris, Musette hesitated and delayed returning to the Populaire to begin packing. She loved Paris; it was home now. But she was scared of what haunted the opera house. She somehow felt that even if she just moved out of the opera house and stayed in Paris that the ghost would find her. It was bordering on paranoia, but that dream still frightened her.

It was late in the afternoon when Musette finally returned to the opera house. M. Leclerke had already gone home, but Alex was still working. A seamstress directed Musette to the upper levels behind the stage where Alex was supervising lighting and scene improvements from the catwalks. Musette climbed up the stairs slowly. It was very dark; most of the company had gone home and only some of the stage and costume workers were left.

Musette nearly screamed when something crashed behind her. Not wanting to pass whatever made the noise, Musette went forward and upward. She ran up a last set of stairs and out of the door at the top. She closed the door behind her then turned to find herself on the roof.

* * *

"Careful over there," Alex shouted. A workman had just clumsily dropped one of his tools from the catwalk to the level just below. The man called an apology, but Alex was too distracted by a figure running up and out to the roof. There was no mistaking the dark hair and small figure of Musette Regal.

* * *

Musette walked around the roof, her breath taken by the glorious view of the sunset over Paris. She walked up higher and around the building, exploring the different areas of the roof. But when the sun had set completely she had no idea where the door she had used was. She walked around some more to try and find it. Finally she spotted one door that felt right. She tried opening it, but it wouldn't budge. It only felt like it was stuck, so she gave it a hard push to open. The stairs on the other side weren't familiar, but they weren't unfamiliar either. It was so hard to tell in the dark. But then she had the strangest feeling; it was almost as if she knew these were the stairs that led to her room—the stairs where the other Musette died.

She walked down very slowly, but each step she took made her more and more afraid. What she feared she didn't know, and if she knew she didn't dare admit it to herself. She was practically at the bottom of the stairs when the terror was too overwhelming to move any further. She was having trouble breathing and her sight was blurring. She started coughing and it only made the pain worse. Vaguely it might have crossed her mind that this was a panic attack… but brought on by what?

* * *

Alex watched as the workmen finished for the day and were packing their tools and leaving. He was checking over some wiring again when he felt someone come beside him on the catwalk.

"The improvements are going well," the Phantom said.

"Yeah," Alex agreed. "Are you here to check on the improvements or… um… just to keep an eye on _Mademoiselle_ Regal?"

"Musette is here?"

"I saw her go running up to the roof entrance just over there not too long ago."

"The roof?"

"She looked a bit scared from how she was running. It might have been just from the sound of a tool that fell, but I think she's really scared with you following her all… the… time…"

Alex paused on each of those last words when he looked around and saw that he was alone. It was just as well the Phantom didn't hear those last words; the lasso might have made an appearance around Alex's neck.

* * *

As Musette continued to wheeze and cough and tears came down her face, someone opened the door at the bottom of the stairs. That person rushed up to her and picked her up; he carried her down and back into her room. She was then set down on the chair in front of the fire. Musette was still wheezing and not breathing normally. Her rescuer knelt in front of her, but then pulled her to the floor and held her.

"Musette, it's over," the voice pierced through the haze she was trapped in. "You're safe, just breathe. My dearest Musette. You're all right."

With a few hard sobs, Musette shook off whatever held her lungs. She cried into the shoulder of the man holding her; being held in his arms against his chest made her feel safe and comforted. But then the situation came crashing down on her and she pulled away and used the chair to get back on her feet.

There on the rug in front of her fire was a man in period evening clothes wearing a white mask over half of his face.

"No, no, no. You aren't real. You can't be…" As Musette realised that this was the Phantom of the Opera, the one she had been avoiding and running from. She started to think in her very confused brain that ghosts weren't solid. She had definitely just been in _very_ solid arms. She didn't know if that scared her more or less.

The Phantom smiled slightly, an expression trying to comfort her. "I'm very real, Musette. Just as you are." It was definitely the same voice from the dressing room and her dream.

"No," Musette said as she finally cleared her head and her thoughts organised themselves. "I want you to get this straight. I'm not her, so you can just leave me alone! God! I don't want any of this. I don't care if I have her name, if I have her room, or if I look just like her. I'm _not_ Musette Rigaud! I'm me! I'm Musette Regal. I'm no one else. I'm just me."

While Musette's voice rose so that she was almost yelling, the Phantom stood and became angrier the more she protested that she wasn't the dead woman. "You _are_ my Musette. You don't just look like her, you _are_ her. I've watched you; I've seen you act exactly like her."

"No." Musette shook her head and tried to walk away. "I have my own life, my own fiancé, and I'm not her!"

He grabbed her hand. "Then explain what just happened."

She met his gaze and noticed that his eyes were green. "I don't know."

"You stopped exactly where you died. You felt again what you felt then in those last moments."

"No!"

"A pain in your chest, you couldn't breathe, you were coughing but it only made it worse." He paused and searched her face to see if he was right.

Musette knew he was. "How do you know…"

"Because I was there when you fell. I held you as you died. But you've come back to me. My Musette…"

"No! I told you, I'm not her." But her voice wasn't as sure this time. "I'm leaving. I'm going back to London."

"No! You can't leave me again, not now that you've come back to me." He pulled a small leather book out of his jacket. "This is the diary of Musette Rigaud. Read it, and you'll know that I am returning it to its proper owner. When you know, you'll also know how to find me."

Musette took the book and looked at it while he walked past her. It looked like a diary she would choose. It was brown leather, its cover wrapped and tied with a rose carved into the front.

"Don't leave me," he said.

Musette turned to look at him, but he was gone. But something in his voice with those parting words stayed with her. There was so much pain and longing. It didn't even need a "please" attached. She couldn't just leave now.

She looked at the diary. It held the answers to what was happening. But did she want them? The Phantom had said that reading the diary would prove who she was. Musette knew that once she had proof that she was the reincarnation of another woman there would be no turning back. Should she remain in ignorance Musette Regal, or should she risk being Musette Rigaud reborn?

Musette started a fire and sat down to read.

* * *

_Next... the history of Musette in her own words._


	6. The Diary

_Each paragraph is an entry, but while I give the month, I'm not going to label each entry day by day. There are of course several more day-to-day entries, but I've only written the important ones. I've tried to make it just clear enough to follow, but not super detailed._

* * *

* * *

**From the diary of Musette Rigaud**

July 1867

This has been one of the hottest summers in Paris to my memory. Since the opera house is between seasons and hasn't started rehearsals yet, my time is my own. I decided to continue my explorations of the cellars. I at last found my way to the underground lake. I was so excited to find that it did indeed exist. Some of the girls in the ballet don't believe it does. But I found it. Since I was so hot, and the water looked clear enough, I decided to take a bathe in the lake. I still remember the summers before my parents died when I would bathe in the small lake hidden in the trees behind the church green. I'm sure that the ladies who come to see the operas with their fine jewels and silks would gasp in horror and faint if they knew I took off all my clothes, even my drawers and chemise. The water was cold and took away the heat immediately. I swam vigorously to stay warm and so that I could explore the lake. It separated out into different canals. Along the sides were walkways of stone that had large faces carved into the walls. There were torches here and there so I had some light as I swam. But soon I turned back so that I wouldn't lose my way completely.

I returned to the lake today to swim again. I thought that like the last time I would be completely alone. But I wasn't. It is so embarrassing to think of, and yet I met the most unusual and infuriating man. I once again removed everything from my dress to my drawers and swam in the lake completely bare. I was exploring down one canal, humming and singing a tune from Meyerbeer's _Robert le Diable_, when I heard something else splashing in the water. I turned and there was a man standing in a gondola. He stared at me with as much shock as I felt. At length he asked if I was a water nymph. I answered that I was not, but that he had caught me without my clothing. He asked why I didn't have my clothes. I asked why he wore a mask—as I had marked that he wore a white mask over the right half of his face. Other than that he was dressed as a gentleman. He blustered at me angrily, so I told him that I was only rude as he had first been rude in continuing to question me while I was without clothing and in cold water. He seemed contrite and asked if I needed assistance out of the water. I accepted because I had become too cold to swim on my own back to by clothing. I believe he kept his gaze on my face and not my body as he helped me into the boat. He had taken off his cloak and offered it to me as well. As he pushed the boat to where I told him I had left my clothes, I asked him if he truly thought I was a water nymph. He said that when he heard me singing and saw me that he did. But he added that my voice needed improvement. We had then reached where my clothes were. I was so angry that I got out of the boat and threw his cloak back at him, not caring about what he saw. I gathered my clothes and ran. I could hear his laughter behind me. I think he must be the Opera Ghost that has been causing mischief for the past few years. I don't think he can be much older than I am, and I am just fifteen.

He is the Phantom of the Opera. I met him again today. I was walking around the storage rooms not used much now high up in the back of the opera house, and he grabbed my arm suddenly and pulled me into one of the rooms. I nearly yelled when I demanded to know how he dared to attack me like that. He only laughed. Then he said that he couldn't stop thinking about me. I answered that it was only because he saw me in such a scandalous position. He said that it wasn't just that. He didn't mean to offend me when he said my voice needed improvement. He said he wanted to help me, to teach me, and to make my voice as beautiful as I was. I thought he was just flattering me, but he seemed so sincere—in regards to teaching me. I was beginning to like him even though he could make me so angry, so I agreed more to spend time with him than for any of my own ambitions. I don't care about one day becoming the prima donna. I'm not sure that I'd like the attention or the things expected of those that aren't married by the wealthy patrons. When I told him that he could teach me, I said that first I must know his name. I refused to call him M. le Fantôme. He said that his name was Erik.

December 1868

Between rehearsals and Erik's lessons I haven't found the time to write as much as I'd like, and looking through my diary the entries from the past year are all horribly short and only full of complaints. Erik demands almost every free moment I have. But now the opera house is performing a ballet over the Christmas holiday so that our prima donna can rest her voice and visit her family. If only Erik would let me rest my voice. I think I will be forced to hit him if he raises his voice at me again. But I will admit that I have improved. My voice has improved so much that my Aunt Clémence [ballet mistress] and M. Hermand [director] have agreed that I should be less a part of the ballet and move towards becoming more of a singer. I still practice my dancing, but I will only be part of the dances within the operas rather than the full ballets. Erik is pleased, but I think it is more with himself than my progress. He has the amazing talent of making me very angry at times. If I were less of a person I might not give him the Christmas present I made for him.

January 1869

I did give him his present. It was only a set of handkerchiefs with O.G. stitched in the corners, but he seemed to like them. At this year's New Year's Masquerade he even made an appearance. I was so shocked when I heard him speak my name behind me. I turned and saw that he was wearing a costume from a years ago production of _Faust_—he must have spied on me to know that I altered an old unwanted costume into a medieval costume for Marguerite, and then chose the Faust costume to match. He had a black mask over the top of his face rather than his usual white half mask. He asked me to dance for a few of the dances and then helped me escape early. I never like staying long at over-crowed events like the Masquerade always is.

November 1869

For the first time Erik did not appear for lessons. I waited nearly an hour and he never came. I left angry, but not long after I grew very worried. I went back to that storage room where we always meet. He never used the door I did, so there must be a secret door. I hoped that it led to wherever Erik lived. It took me some time feeling along the walls and knocking for anything that seemed out of the ordinary, but I found the door and managed to get it open. I don't know how long I walked, but after never-ending stairs leading to halls that led to more stairs, I realised I must be in the cellars. The walls turned from stones and grout to rougher blocks and parts of the wall that were solid sheets of stone. Then when I thought the tunnel ended, on closer examination I saw that it was just a heavy drape. I pushed it aside and found myself in a cavern filled with candles. Most of them were unlit, but there was light from a few gas lanterns. There was also part of the lake there, with a portcullis blocking entrance to the cavern. As I looked around more I saw scattered art supplies and projects, and then there was an organ with sheet music overflowing off the stand. I knew I had found Erik's home. Looking around the cavern more, I at last found Erik's bedroom. He was in bed and looked terribly ill—but he still had that blasted mask on. It looked like he only had a cold from the way he was coughing and how red his nose was. I went to him and felt that he had a fever as well, but luckily it didn't feel too hot. When he seemed to realise that I was there, he grew agitated and told me to leave so that I didn't get sick. I told him he was an idiot, and that I didn't care if I got sick. He needed help. I also told him that he should take that stupid mask off. This made him even more upset. But he was too weak to fight me off. And I argued with him that as he had seen me completely naked that it shouldn't matter that I saw whatever he hid behind the mask. I knew that it must be some sort of deformity or badly healed injury. He started babbling about how it was different since he was a hideous monster and I was a beautiful nymph with a body sculpted by the gods. As I straightened out his blankets and propped him up better on the pillows, I grumbled about the mad, fever-induced ravings of young artists. Sculpted by the gods? Ridiculous. He must have been sicker than I first thought. I let him keep his mask on while I left to get supplies. At least he was coherent enough to tell me a quicker way to the main part of the opera house.

I returned and found Erik had fallen asleep. I prayed thanks to God for that small blessing. I removed his mask and set it on the organ in the main cavern so he had no chance of getting it back until he was well. When I returned again I looked at what he so desperately wanted me not to see. I would be lying if I said it wasn't a shock to see at last. But while I wiped his forehead with a cool, wet cloth, I decided that it wasn't too bad. Ugly, certainly, frightening, maybe, but the rest of his face was more than handsome enough to make up for it. He had been over exaggerating his hideousness as well as my beauty. I should have known. Poor Erik tends to see things in their extremes rather than the realities. I put a fire in the small heating stove in the corner of the room, and on top heated the soup I had smuggled out of the kitchens. While I did that, Erik woke up and realised that he no longer wore his mask. He whined in his own raging way about it and how I wouldn't want to be near him any longer. If the man wasn't sick I really think I would have hit him with the spoon in my hand. As he was sick, I turned and told him to stop acting like a small child. It wasn't so horrible that I couldn't get used to the sight of it, and it changed nothing in our relationship. But if he didn't cooperate with me and get well quickly, I'd never speak to him again. He was silent and stared at me. It made me uncomfortable, so I tended to the soup and then brought it to him. He was able to eat on his own, so I tidied the clothes strewn about the place until he finished. Then I ordered him to sleep. I left the room and tidied the mess of artwork and music in the main cavern. Like any bachelor, I suppose, he really needed a large team of servants to clean his mess, but I managed to make it a little less chaotic.

Thank God Erik was not sick for long. After three days in bed under my care—which luckily went unnoticed since I was not dancing in the opera we were performing and I did not need to be at practice, so I only was needed at the performances at night—Erik's illness disappeared. As soon as he was up and walking again, he found his mask and put it on. I didn't say anything, but he needn't have bothered. I really didn't mind. But I stayed silent. I did argue quite violently with him when he wanted to escort me back to the upper levels of the opera house. I told him that he had much better stay and rest, and that we wouldn't have my lessons until the next week. I think it would have been better if I had let him take me up. He argued back with as much gusto and I fear that it might have taken too much of his strength. In the end I won the argument, but I had to help him back to bed to prove the point.

Lessons have begun once again with Erik, and I am sure that he is exacting his revenge. He yells and berates me more than ever. He has always been a strict and demanding teacher, but no more than I am used to from years studying under the harsh masters here in the Opéra Populaire. But during the lessons in the past week, Erik has been almost cruel. He yells that I need to work harder, that I'm not doing enough, that I am no good at all. I never expected any thanks for forcing my care on him, but I will not put up with this torture any longer.

At yesterday's lesson Erik continued to push me too hard and was intolerably cruel to me. It was too much, and I am ashamed to admit that instead of arguing back as I usually might, I ran. I went through storage rooms and past other workers and weaved my path so erratically that I don't think even Erik could have followed. I ended up on the roof. Walking up there usually soothes any troubles that weigh on my mind. The view is breathtakingly beautiful, and there is a sort of thrilling peace standing alone in the sunshine with the wind whipping my hair. I let the sun and wind dry the tears that had leaked out. I spent a long time there regaining my calmness and just trying to relax. When I returned to the dormitories I didn't meet Erik on the way. I wonder if he even tried to look for me, or if he had just returned to his cave below. The next day, today, I didn't even go to my lesson. Instead I went down to the chapel to light a candle for my parents. I go every Sunday, but today I needed the peace of that holy room. I miss things as they were before Erik became sick. I missed them so much then that I didn't have a few tears leak out—they came pouring. Today, Erik came and found me. I should have known that he had a secret way into the chapel. He demanded to know why I had not met him for my lesson, but he stopped when I looked up and let him see that he had driven me to tears. He went silent immediately. He didn't say anything, but it almost looked as if I had slapped him. At last he asked what was wrong. I found the courage to tell him. I told him that I wouldn't go to another lesson if he continued to drive me so hard, to make impossible demands, and to be so horribly cruel. I told him that I wanted things to be as they were before, and that I didn't understand why he had changed so much. It was beyond brutal of me, but I also said that it didn't matter what he looked like under his mask because he was now acting like a monster. I then turned away. He wasn't there when I looked back. I sobbed even harder.

March 1870

It is hard to believe that I have not been able to write since that horrible scene in the chapel. But I should write what happened as best as I can remember it. When I eventually dried my eyes I went to my bed in the dormitories. I was extremely tired and feeling all over unwell. By the next morning I had a terrible fever, sore throat, and cough. Aunt Clémence asked her assistant Mme. Giry to care for me—the corps de ballet needed my aunt too much to spare her. They moved me to a small room of my own, and Mme. Giry looked after me as best as she could. But whenever it looked like I was improving, I became even more ill. The doctor advised my going south to warmer weather since Paris was bitterly cold. My aunt made arrangements for me to stay with her husband's sister. I didn't want to leave, but M. Joannot-Dupuis insisted that I go. He was backed by Aunt Clémence and M. Hermand who both wanted to make sure that I regained my health completely and would be able to sing again. I didn't know why they were investing so much in one chorus girl, even one who was the niece of the ballet mistress, and I said as much. They all believed I had the potential to one day be the second or first soprano, and they wanted to see that happen. I think it was mainly my aunt that bullied the manager into that opinion. M. Hermand probably just wants a singer he knows won't disrupt his rehearsals with fits of temper. So I went south to stay with Alice Sevestre in the village St. Paul de Vence. For nearly a month she kept me in bed, and then I was only allowed up around the house. After Christmas I was allowed to take a short daily walk around the village. It was incredibly beautiful, and I loved just sitting by the large fountain in one of the small courtyards the village called a square. But as much as I enjoyed being among medieval stones and southern French people, I missed Paris and my solitude on the opera roof or in Père Lachaise. Most of all I missed Erik. I practiced as much as I could and as Alice would allow, but I knew that I had lost some of what I gained. Only Erik could help me improve again.

As spring came to Paris at long last, I was allowed to return. My health had improved greatly and there was no fear of another relapse so long as I took care of myself when I returned to Paris, or so the local doctor said. I am so glad to be back. I haven't seen Erik yet, but if I have to I will seek him out. After all, I do know how to find his home. But when I first returned today, so many people wanted to greet me. On the part of the ballerinas it was only out of curiosity and not any genuine feeling of welcome. Mme. Giry was oddly absent, even though her young daughter Meg was still here. Aunt Clémence insisted I had tea and then supper with her. She clucked after me almost like a mother hen. But I was so grateful for her help. She kept me just long enough so that I could go to bed and write a little in my diary, but late enough that I don't have time to find Erik. It's been so long already that one more day shouldn't matter, but it does. Part of me wants to pretend to sleep and sneak out later, but it would only anger everyone that I put my health at risk so soon after the kindnesses that helped me regain it.

Erik came to me last night! I finished writing and fell asleep, but late in the night I woke up when I heard him say my name. Erik was there beside my bed. I don't know if he meant to wake me or not. But even if he didn't, I feel that after so long without him even his completely silent presence would have instinctively woken me from slumber. I didn't dare speak, so I sat up and hugged him tightly. He whispered that he should let me sleep, but he held me just as tight. It felt so wonderful, and I whispered back in his ear that he better not even try. I'm sure he was smiling. One of the girls in the room stirred, and we separated. I grabbed my shoes and put them on. Erik, I'm sure, knew that it would be pointless to argue with me, so he just took off his cloak and wrapped it around me. It wasn't too far, so we went to the room we use for lessons. He pulled me into another embrace, and I was quite happy to be there with my head against his chest. I told him how much I had missed him. He said that missing didn't begin to describe the depths of his feelings without me. I said that my voice was probably terrible with disuse. He said it was probably as bad as when we had first met. He laughed, but sobered and promised that it wouldn't be like before, that he wouldn't be so unfairly harsh. I didn't say anything. I wanted to ask what had made him that way, but I didn't want to push it into an argument. When I yawned, he said it was time to get me back into bed. He then picked me up in his arms and carried me back to the dormitory. I whispered that this would be so much easier if I had my own room. He nodded and got a look that I know well. It usually means he's planning something.

May 1870

He was planning something all right. I didn't understand why at the time, but Erik moved our lessons to a different room in that same hall. I never guessed what he was up to, but it seems he has been changing the storage room we met in into a private room for me. He put in a fireplace, gas lights, and a wonderful reading area. I haven't read as much as I'd like since I was a little girl and came to the opera house. I keep this diary just so I don't forget how to read. I was stunned by how wonderful the room is. Of course, the secret panel is still there. When he showed me the room I couldn't help asking how I could live there if I was still supposed to be in the dormitories. He only smiled, but I demanded an answer. He said that the Phantom had convinced M. Joannot-Dupuis that as a rising star and an adult I needed my own room. Since the room wasn't wanted, and had already been converted at no see-able expense to the opera house, the manager could have no objections. Erik certainly was crafty about the whole thing, but I won't complain.

When I first returned to the opera house, I wrote that Mme. Giry was not here. As it turned out, she was with a sick friend, the violinist Gustave Daaé. The poor man died and left an orphaned daughter. I met her today in the chapel. Having once been in the same position myself, I tried to comfort her. Then she asked the oddest question. She wanted to know if I had ever been visited by the Angel of Music, because her father had promised to send the Angel but he hadn't come yet. I had to say something, but I didn't know what. I never waited for an Angel; I took comfort from the cemetery and the stillness of shadows. But that's how I had met Erik, and he certainly turned out to be my Angel of Music. So I told little Christine that I had met the Angel. I tried to give her comfort in thinking that the Angel was all around, watching and protecting the opera house. She then said she would continue to wait for the Angel to come to her. When I saw Erik later, I told him about the little girl waiting for her Angel of Music. I told him I was glad that I had met my own Angel when I met him. He seemed both pleased with the praise, and reluctant to take it on account of his looks. I should have known. I can't help but wonder if all genius artists see things so strangely different from the actual truth, or if it is a trait unique to my Erik.

October 1870

It is simply awful here in Paris. War with Prussia started over the summer, and now it feels as if all of the German states have surrounded Paris. The opera house has closed and has been set up as a temporary shelter for those in need. I don't know how long Paris can hold out against such an awful force. I don't know how I can be thankful for all the food the opera house has horded since the war started since so many go without. But it means that Erik can stay safe in his home deep below the ground. Most of those that can have fled the city, so there is no one who wants to see an opera. Aunt Clémence left just before the siege and now Mme. Giry is the ballet mistress of a disbanded group of dancers. My aunt had wanted me to come with her to the south of France, but I refused. I wanted to confess my friendship with Erik, but I couldn't. Instead I let her think that I needed to stay for my career. My aunt has been meaning to retire in any case, so she bid me farewell and promised to return for whenever I made my debut as the prima donna.

February 1871

Peace has been reached, but at the cost of the French. Those dreadful Germans beat and starved us into submission. To escape the terrible sounds of the bombardment, I often spent my time below in Erik's home. It is so deep underground that it can't hear even those tremendous bursts. Now the opera house is starting rehearsals for its grand reopening. There is a new prima ballerina: Irinushka Feodorovna. Before the siege I often caught her watching me, but I don't know why she was paying so much attention to me. After my return I worked hard at being invisible. Too much attention on me might have brought attention on Erik. Often I would use the secret passages Erik showed me to avoid her. But now I have had the greatest shock. Our prima donna does not want to return, and M. Joannot-Dupuis wants me to replace her. I knew the day might come, but I never thought it would be this soon. I'm sure Erik had a hand in it, but I won't be cross with him. I know it will make him happy to see me as the prima donna.

Erik is more than happy. He is in love with me. After finding out I was to be the new lead, he came to my room that night. He said that at last the world would see his little water nymph and that I'd be a triumph. I said all I wanted was to spend my time with him. After staring into my face, he suddenly asked me to marry him. I was stunned, but not to stunned to forget to say yes. Then he kissed me, and it was the most incredible feeling. I can't say that I'm happy because that doesn't begin to describe it. I don't know what I feel. It's something more than joy. I know I love him too. I think I've loved him since he fell ill, or even before that at the Masquerade or even when we first met. I asked him when we could be married and he said soon, before my debut in Gounod's _Faust_ next week.

I found the perfect gift to surprise Erik with, since I can guess that he'll try and surprise me with wedding gifts. From the Christmases we've had together, I know that he hasn't received many gifts in his life, and he gives me too many—most often single white roses tied with a black ribbon. I found a music box that plays the tune from the Populaire's Masquerade. It has a little monkey with cymbals and a Persian outfit on the top. I know Erik likes Persian things. I hope he likes the music box. I was looking at the box and letting it play when Mme. Giry knocked on my door. I let her in, unsure of why she was here. I had to go back to the music box and stop it playing, and she said that it was a lovely box. She then asked if it was for my fiancé. I asked how she knew that I was to be married. She explained that she has known Erik since he first came to the Opéra Populaire. She said that she hid him in the opera house when he escaped from a group of gypsies that had him on display. Since then she has been a kind of mother to him, or an older sister that looks out for him, and that he asked her to help arrange the marriage. She said that she was glad Erik had found someone, and asked if I loved him. I could honestly answer her and calm her apparent fears. I told her that I had seen Erik at his best and worst over the past years and that I was in love with every part of him. She smiled, congratulated me, and said that the ceremony would be at a nearby church tomorrow after rehearsals. Naturally Erik wouldn't want me to miss those.

I can't sleep. I know that I'll be tired in rehearsals tomorrow if I don't get some rest, but I can't. When I tried it took forever for me to fall asleep, and then I was plagued by horrible nightmares of snow, fire, sword fighting, and a sensation of falling. I woke and wished that Erik was here to comfort me. But I know he won't see me until the wedding tomorrow. It seems a silly superstition, and I'm tempted to take the journey to his home below. I don't know why that dream has upset me so much. I can't even remember it clearly. All I remember is the anguish and the terror. That feeling is worse than the images. It has something to do with what the images mean. I must be imagining things. Hopefully writing it down will clear it all from my head. I must sleep. Tomorrow I will be a bride. Erik's bride. The next time I write in this diary I will be his wife. Madame le Fantôme—I hope he has some other name, or M. Joannot-Dupuis will have a hard time explaining his prima donna's name to the patrons.

* * *

_Next... the repercussions._


	7. Past Remembered

Musette turned the page looking for more of the other Musette's writing. There was nothing. That was the last entry. She was going to be married. Did they marry? How long after did she die? Musette took out the copy she had made of the newspaper article detailing the death. The date was two days after the last entry, and it said that she had died the night before. She had died the night of her wedding. The Phantom… Erik… had held her dying in his arms on their wedding night.

"Oh my god," Musette breathed.

Unable to take anymore, she quickly went to bed and prayed for sleep to take her quickly.

* * *

That night more dreams came, but these ones didn't frighten her.

She was a young girl living in a village in eastern France. She was swimming in the lake and running through the village. She was helping her mother with the chores, and they were singing folk songs. Then her mother was sending her away to her grandparents when her father became ill. Everything shifted and her grandparents were telling her that her parents both had died from a fever. Her aunt was there to take her away to Paris to learn to be a dancer in the opera. She was leaving her village and passing the cemetery. Looking at the headstones and the tombs, she felt her parents still with her.

Musette woke, but it was still before dawn. She turned and fell back into her dreams.

She was swimming deep under the opera house and met Erik. She was throwing his cloak back at him, then she ran away completely naked. She met him again when he surprised her in the halls. All the feelings that were written in the diary, Musette felt in her dream. It was like she was more than watching the memories—she was reliving them. She relived spinning around the masquerade with him; she even relived one of her singing lessons. Then it all skipped ahead to returning to Paris from St. Paul. Right when she knew she should be seeing Erik, she woke up again.

It was still too early to get up. Once again Musette shifted and let herself drift asleep.

This time she was dressed in her white practice dress with the blue sash again. She was running through the empty, dark halls of the Populaire, but this time she was looking for something. She knew she was looking for Erik. She ran past the burning stage, the sounds of the man pounding on the prima donna's door, and then into the chapel. This time she was able to leave and then run up to her room and its secret passage. She opened it and ran down all sorts of corridors and tunnels. She came to a piece of glass, like the wrong side of a two-way mirror. Through it she could see Erik hunched over, his face in his hands, crying. There was suddenly a candelabrum next to her. With a mighty push she threw it into the glass and screamed as it shattered around her. Everything went dark and she felt as if she were falling. Just as she started to feel those same pains she felt from her panic attack on the stairs, she woke up.

It was full morning, so Musette got out of bed and went to her vanity to run her brush through her hair. She sat down and looked in the mirror as she picked up the brush. As she looked at her dark hair and green eyes, she knew that she couldn't be the daughter of Henry and Susanne Regal. She was Musette Rigaud. She couldn't deny it anymore. The dreams, everything that had happened since she came to Paris… it all added up to one thing. She was a woman from the nineteenth century reborn into the twentieth.

Just to be absolutely sure, she looked at the diary again. Musette looked closely at the handwriting. Her mother had made her take penmanship and calligraphy lessons once; it was the same writing style. The more she thought about it, the more her life began to blend with the other Musette's life. She was remembering that other life as if it was a dream she had, or a movie she had seen. It was the same feeling as remembering something but not where that thing was from—when you questioned if it was a quote from a book, a movie, or something you yourself said. Thinking about remembering her own life was confusing enough, but now she had another invading her memories.

"I'm her," Musette said out loud, still stunned by the revelation. "I am… there is no her or we; it's just me. I was alive then and I'm alive now. I bet Freud would sell his mother to analyse this." She gave a mordant laugh.

Now she had a decision to make: should she go find Erik, or should she wait and process everything?

She decided it was better to wait. She wasn't sure of her feelings, and had so many questions about everything. She decided she needed to go to the cemetery and think. She needed to get out of the opera house and all of its memories now pressing into her brain. She grabbed her coat and headed out.

* * *

Musette walked around the cemetery for only a short while; it didn't comfort her like she thought it would. She left and went to the Tuileries Garden. It was surreal to walk around and see all of the people; she remembered going to the garden in the summer over a century ago. Seeing modern clothes but remembering the large skirts and redingotes of then was a peculiar sensation.

She had another peculiar, but good peculiar, sensation when she passed where the Tuileries Palace once stood. She remembered the palace before it was consumed by fire. She didn't have any memory of the fire itself; it happened a couple months after her death.

After her death. That was the most aberrant of her thoughts. Knowing what it is to die wasn't something most people knew. People didn't usually come back from the dead, or at least if they did they never knew about it.

Musette passed a group of children singing songs while they played. She stopped a moment when they started a new song.

"Auprès de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon. Auprès de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon dormir!"

Musette walked away, but the tune stuck with her. It was the song she was singing with her mother in the dream she had last night. For the rest of the morning the song was stuck in her head.

* * *

Musette did not stay out the entire day. Just after noon she returned to the Opéra Populaire and headed up to her room. As she was walking up all the stairs and halls to her room she hummed and sang the chorus of the old French song.

"Auprès de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon. Auprès de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon dormir!"

"Musette!"

She turned and smiled when she saw who had called to her. "Alex, how are you?"

"I'm good. You? You seem happier today."

She gave a sigh and rolled her eyes. "I guess confused is better than scared."

"What?"

"It's… nothing. Sorry. I should get going." She turned to leave, but he spoke again.

"Are you sure you're alright? You've seemed… um… on edge lately."

"I could say the same about you."

"Stress, nothing new."

"If you say so, Alex." She left and was soon in her room.

Looking around, knowing what she knew, remembering what she did, she couldn't possibly leave Paris and return to London. This was home. Musette picked up the diary and read a few passages again before deciding it was time. She had been running for so long. Now it was time to stop and go see the Phantom… to see Erik.

She felt along the wall for the secret passage and found it just where she remembered. She walked slowly down the passages, and even slower down the stairs. She had never felt easy going down stairs before, but now they scared her to death… pun intended and all. As she walked, she couldn't help thinking how strange it was that Erik was still alive after over a century since she had first died.

A century! How had he lived that long? She just knew that he had never died. If he had, she felt instinctively that she would not be here now. They would have found each other in the afterlife. How had he lived then? And how did she come back? There was only one person who could have the answers, or at the very least understand what she was going through. And she was on her way to see him now.

She hesitated for a moment when she finally reached the curtain. Taking a deep breath, she pulled it back and stepped into the Phantom's lair. It was still exactly as she remembered it, lit with candles all around the bit of lake cut off by the portcullis. She looked around. Erik was sitting at his organ in his trousers and open poet's shirt. He wasn't playing the organ or writing on the papers that should have been spread out on the stand. He was just sitting there staring at it.

"Erik," she called.

Startled, he turned. There was a look so hopeful on his face that it was almost pitiful, but it melted into the most beautiful smile when he realised that she was here to tell him that he was right.

"Musette," he breathed, but he didn't move yet from his seat at the organ. "My Musette?"

She could only nod since her throat tightened with emotion. In the blink of an eye he was no longer at the organ; he was with her, his arms sweeping her into his embrace.

In that moment the collision of her two lives left her divided. She remembered loving him, but she also didn't know him. Even if she accepted the memories of knowing him, he had probably changed in the century since then. She was so confused that she could only stand there with his arms surrounding her.

He let her go after a few moments when she didn't return the embrace. He pulled back and searched her face. She hoped he saw the struggle in her.

"Musette?"

She couldn't take the confusion, the memories of two lives crammed into her head overnight. She broke down in tears. Erik picked her up took her to a chaise longue where he set her down. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her.

"I'm sorry," she said as she dried her eyes. "It's all too much to take in so soon."

"I know," he said gently.

"I thought you might," she said with a smile. "I can't remember all of it. I think my head would explode if I did. So I'm not going to try." He looked away, but she caught the pain in his face. "I don't want to _remember_ loving you. I want to get to know you now and just start falling in love _again_."

There was again hope in his eyes. And that was when Musette knew what had to happen. "Will you teach me to sing again? I've spent years training, but it hasn't really come to much. Could you help me?"

"There is nothing I want to do more." He took her hands and kissed the back of them.

"Play for me?" she asked with a slight sniffle and looking towards the organ.

"What would you like to hear? Mozart, Beethoven, Bach?"

She shook her head. "Too German. Play your music. I want to hear something you wrote."

Erik played for a little while his own pieces, but then he played other works as well—mostly other French composers. Listening helped to clear Musette's head. She was so focused on Erik playing and how the music made her feel that she couldn't think about the confusion in her head. After two hours he stopped and turned on the bench to look at her.

"Is it better now?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "But how has this all happened? How can you be still alive and me…"

He looked to think it over for a moment. "I don't know. I can't die, I never age. I can't explain it. While you died too soon, I never could follow you. But you have come back."

He was becoming impassioned again, but he pulled it back seeing she was still distressed. "You should return to your room and rest. Come here tomorrow morning and we will start your lessons."

Musette agreed and let him walk her back through the passages to her room. When they arrived, he again kissed the back of her hand, but then turned it over and pressed his lips to her wrist. In that moment, a tide of warm feelings washed over her and she didn't want him to leave. When he moved to release her hand she grabbed hold of his.

"Erik…"

Their eyes met and Erik pulled her into his arms again. He kissed her lips only briefly, but it was unlike anything she had felt before. She wanted to pull him back and kiss him again, but she stopped herself. She needed to take this slowly. With a smile and promise to see him tomorrow, Musette watched Erik leave through the secret door.

* * *

Musette hurried down the passages, only slowing for the stairs. She had spent the remainder of yesterday eager for the day to end and the next to start. She was both nervous and excited to have singing lessons with Erik again. She couldn't remember much of them from before. She couldn't even remember what his face looked like under the mask. But since she didn't care about it then, she wasn't going to care about it now. The thrill of learning everything all over again eased the confusion in her head. She didn't have to strain to recall the past, and she could push it aside if it weighed too heavily on her mind.

She had dreamed more of her memories though. They were mostly of her childhood with her parents and then with her aunt in the opera house. There was such love with her parents that when she thought of the Regals, she felt more like they were loving foster parents than her real family. She was grateful for their support and how they chose her education, but she didn't feel the same warm love that she did when she thought of singing and doing the chores with her first mother.

As she neared Erik's home, she hoped that she wasn't too early, but she couldn't wait any longer. But if his reactions yesterday were anything to go by, he wouldn't think there was such a thing as "too early."

When she entered his home she didn't immediately see him. "Erik?"

She jumped when she felt him touch her shoulder from behind.

"I'm sorry for startling you, Musette," he said as he ran the hand on her shoulder down her arm to her hand. He took her hand and led her to the organ.

The lesson then began. It didn't even take the first note for Erik to start correcting her faults; he said her breathing technique was all wrong and they started there. By noon she had only gotten as far as scales and various vocal warm ups, but she was exhausted. She tried not to show just how worn out she was, but Erik noticed.

"We did too much today," he said with an unspoken apology.

"No, I just… There's so much work I need to do. I didn't think I was _that_ bad."

"You aren't," he assured her. "How long since you last sang? And how long since you thought about _how_ you were singing?"

She couldn't answer him.

"It will take time and practice, but you will sing like a perfect water nymph once more."

"Not screeching like a siren?"

He laughed. "Never."

Once again Erik walked Musette back to her room, and left her with a chaste kiss and the promise of another lesson the next morning.

* * *

Erik hummed as he walked back to his lair. Things were going better than he had expected. Musette knew who she was and wanted to be with him again. He didn't know when she would consent to being his bride again, but he would wait however long it took. For now it was enough just to be with her and shape her voice back to its glorious sound.

So far she hadn't mentioned her fiancé, but Erik wasn't going to mention him until she did. He decided the best course of action was to spend more and more time with her so that she forgot that boy. Any reminder of her engagement might bring her guilt and make her pull back from falling in love with Erik. He would kindle the flames for him into a blaze, while the fire for the boy naturally died down and put itself out.

* * *

_Next... why Erik still lives finally revealed._


	8. Immortality

_Warning: I'm taking my artistic licence and creating something entirely inaccurate. While I take care to get things as close to reality as possible with research and my own experience in Paris, for the purpose of the plot I'm recording a false description of Père Lachaise. Before now all descriptions were what you see when you go there today, but now I am combining it with the cemetery from the 2004 film. Granted, the movie cemetery was based off of Père Lachaise, but here I am directly putting the movie set into reality._

* * *

* * *

Musette had just come back from another lesson with Erik. Only a week and she could feel the improvement—she wasn't _quite_ as exhausted afterwards anymore. But Erik said he heard definite improvements. When teaching he was a man of few compliments, so hearing "definite improvements" made her swell with happiness. Long gone were the days of fear. In fact, now Musette hardly left the opera house at all. After lessons she'd get lunch and then spend the afternoon reading or painting.

But today she decided it was time for fresh air. Last night was the first night—since the day she knew she was Musette Rigaud and went down to Erik's home—that she had a nightmare instead of a memory. It was the same nightmare about snow and a swordfight in the cemetery. It didn't feel like her other memories, but she knew she had to figure it out. She planned to go to Père Lachaise in the hope that it would clear her head and give her answers.

She walked through the cemetery unsure of what she was looking for. She decided not to take any of her usual routes; they had only shown her one memory so far. She now remembered seeing Irinushka Feodorovna both when she was alive, and recently with the ghost of an image she had that day in the rain.

She came to an older part of the cemetery with more statues and a wider walk. She passed through an archway and walked down a set of steps. She kept wandering around following a strange feeling. The cemetery was usually quiet, but here it seemed even more silent and her footsteps on the fallen leaves were deafening. Even with her more macabre tastes, the gigantic hooded men holding crosses and wreaths unnerved her. The statues all around were some of the more beautiful in the cemetery, but that nagging feeling prevented her from enjoying them.

Opposite of the statues at the end of the broad walkway, there was a large mausoleum with two muses holding instruments and flanking a wide set of stairs. Even from a distance she could read the name: Daaé. On a sudden impulse she turned to her right and saw that she was standing next the graves of Christine and Raoul de Chagny. From the dates written, Christine had died five years before her husband. Musette walked towards the Daaé tomb, but then stopped at a stone-covered grave with a simple cross and wreath beneath an old tree.

Musette Rigaud

Elle a dancé avec la Mort

et a chanté aux Fantômes

Her grave—she was standing at her own grave. Perversely she briefly thought of the song "What a Comforting Thing to Know" from _The Slipper and the Rose_. This was not a comforting thing to see. Yet she did like the inscription. It was exactly the sort of thing she would have wanted on her grave. It described her as a dancer and singer, and implied that she died too soon in her career. There was also the irony of singing to ghosts; she certainly sang to one. But as much as she appreciated her grave, looking at it and thinking of her bones just beneath left her incredibly dizzy and uncomfortable.

She turned away, but suddenly everything changed. Instead of autumn it was winter and snow covered the cemetery. A man with long hair and an open white shirt was running up the steps of the Daaé tomb to a girl in a black cloak standing there. The tomb was lit from within, but suddenly the light went out, and a man in a black cape holding a sword swooped down. It didn't take her long to see the mask and know who it was. Helpless and unable to move, Musette watched Erik fight the other man. There was a terrible anger in Erik's face, almost crazed. She looked away for a moment to look at the girl also observing the fight. Musette knew immediately that it was Christine. From the image on the grave and brief flashes of a little girl in the chapel, it was clear that this was the other woman in Erik's life. That meant that the man must have been Raoul de Chagny.

The fighters continued to attack and parry around the graves. They came very near Musette. Suddenly Erik's sword slashed Raoul's arm. He dropped and put the wound in the snow on top of Musette's grave. Though they fought on, Musette for a moment couldn't take her eyes off the blood on her grave.

When she did look up she saw that Erik had fallen and Raoul was holding his sword ready to thrust down for the kill. Musette wanted to cry out, but Christine did while Musette couldn't make a sound.

"No Raoul! No. Not like this."

Musette long to run to Erik's side there in the snow, but her panic and anguish on Erik's behalf gave way to incredulity. The little soprano didn't want her lover to kill Erik in a fair fight? How did she want it to happen? In cold blood when his back was turned?

Musette watched the two young lovers gallop away on the horse, while Erik picked himself up. She heard him swear war on both of them. Again she wanted to run to him and throw her arms around him; she wanted to do something to comfort him, but she couldn't. She could only watch as he angrily swished his cloak and left the cemetery. Musette closed her eyes and a few tears fell. When she opened them it was once again autumn in the cemetery.

Slowly she left Père Lachaise. As she walked she started putting things together in her head. She had just seen the past, but it couldn't have been a memory from her life. She was dead by that time; there was her grave and Christine was older. So how then could she see what happened? Most of the anguish she had felt came from not being able to move, not able to rush to Erik's side. The only conclusion she could draw was that her spirit had seen it. But if that were true, it meant she had watched Erik for a century as a ghost until she could be reborn. Once again she wanted answers to questions that no one could know.

* * *

Needing to be around living people, Musette decided to eat dinner at a favourite café in Montmartre. The chatter and the accordion music helped dispel the heavy weight that sat in her. She was beginning to see how one could have too much death in one's life. The life all around her was a welcome comfort.

Walking back to the Métro, a familiar voice called to her. Musette turned and saw the same gypsy lady that told her she couldn't escape from the cursed man who had his mark on her.

"So you know I was right?" the lady said more than asked.

"Yes. What do you know about it?" Musette asked slowly.

"Come inside and have a cup of coffee."

The lady motioned her into the occult store. Musette followed her through the store to a back room kitchen. The woman pulled out two cups and coffee, and they both sat down at the small table.

"What do you know of the Beast bellow the opera house?"

"I know that he is no beast, madame," Musette said angrily.

The woman just laughed. "Then that proves it."

"Proves what? Who are you?"

"Almost a century and a half ago now, there was a group of my people that had travelling fair. Most would call it a freak show with the contortionists, bearded ladies, and other deformities. Most of the freaks joined the gypsies, as you'd call them, because they had nowhere else to go. But not all were there voluntarily. One of the captives was a small boy with a face so hideous that his own mother abandoned him."

Musette shifted uncomfortably.

The woman continued. "Yes, it was the Beast, the Devil's Child. He escaped from the camp by killing his keeper and running to the depths of the opera house. They couldn't hunt him down, so they used a curse for their vengeance. It is said that he must live forever with his hideous face, never to be loved because of it."

"But I loved him," Musette said. "I lived over a century ago and I loved him then."

"Yes, but you died." She paused for a moment to let that sink in. "But you couldn't stay dead."

"How?" Musette let the word ask the whole question.

"The curse. You died because of it. The Beast's love for you marked you. But your soul lingered and never moved on. You stayed in that opera house, the true ghost haunting its halls. And then after a century you found a way to come back. A child already dying in the womb came to the opera house and you forced your way inside, changing the DNA to your own in the process. And now you've returned to him."

"To die again?"

"No, you can't be touched by the curse twice."

"But if he doesn't age…"

"Neither will you."

"That's impossible," Musette said, and knew that it sounded ridiculous even as she said it.

The woman laughed. "You easily believe that you are a nineteenth century woman returned from the dead to be with your immortal lover, but you don't believe that you too are now just like him? I told you before, you carry his mark. The curse of eternity has latched onto you just as much as him. It killed you before, but now that you've forced yourself back into life, it will keep you alive. The two of you are linked and now cannot be broken."

Musette tried to take it all in. It did make a sort of sense, but it was also extremely intimidating. To live forever? Could their love last that long? She fiddled with her cup and her eyes fell on the diamond ring.

"Oh god," she whispered.

"I take it that's not the Beast's ring?" The woman was very perceptive.

"No, I didn't know him when…"

"Then it seems you have a choice. You can have a normal life of mortality with the man that gave you that ring, and break free of the curse if you don't love the Beast. Or you can spend eternity with the Beast you loved enough to return from the dead for."

"When you put it like that I don't seem to have much of a choice."

The woman laughed. "You always have a choice. Return home and think about it."

Musette thanked the strange woman and left with the weight of knowledge hanging on her.

* * *

When Musette finally reached her room in the opera house it was late. But she couldn't sleep. The woman's words kept swirling around her head.

Well, on the up side she had answers to most of her questions. Not only could she remember her life before, but now she was having visions and memories from when she was dead. It was hard enough keeping track of two lives suddenly at once, but the century in between was even more daunting. But at least she knew why she was alive again and how Erik remained all those years.

A gypsy curse. Could it get any more cliché?

Eternity. She could live forever. Before she had thought till death was a big enough commitment, so how did one commit for eternity? Could she do that? It was a big unknown.

Musette tried to sleep, but her thoughts wouldn't stop long enough for her to fall asleep. She tossed and turned for hours. She never fully slipped into unconsciousness; she was stuck in the dozing limbo of dreams and consciousness. The dreams she had in that state of not-sleep were strange nightmares of looking at herself in the mirror and seeing a skeleton in a dress of cobwebs.

Finally, sometime after dawn she fell properly and deeply asleep without any dreams.

* * *

Musette woke up to the feel of someone brushing her hair away from her face. Slowly she realised that Erik was sitting on the edge of her bed. She sat up, but couldn't help moving groggily.

"What time is it?" she asked him.

"Past noon," he said softly.

"Our lesson, I'm sorry I missed it. I didn't sleep well." She absently ran a hand over her face.

"I can see that. When you didn't appear I came to see if you are all right."

"Yeah. No. I don't know. Bad night."

He ran his hand through her hair soothingly a few times. "I should leave you to rest."

"Okay."

He stood and walked to the secret door.

"Erik," Musette called before he left. "Could you come back in maybe an hour or two? There's something I need to talk to you about."

"I'll come back in two hours."

"Thank you."

He left and Musette got up to take a long shower to wake her up.

* * *

Musette stood looking over the city from her balcony. Clouds were gathering and threatening to rain soon. She briefly thought that it was strange that they had had so little rain so far that fall. No doubt the rain would last for days to make up for its absence.

She felt a touch on her shoulder. "Musette?"

"It'll start raining soon," she said without turning.

"It would seem so. I don't think you asked me here to talk about the rain."

"No. I imagine you've seen enough rain. What has it been like? How does it feel living for over a century? People always want to live longer. Is it worth it?" She turned to face him.

"No, it has been a curse I would not wish on anyone."

Musette frowned painfully and walked back into her room. Erik, puzzled, followed.

"What is it, Musette?"

"I met someone. A woman descended from the gypsies that cursed you to live forever. It was their revenge: you would live forever without love. That's why I died. We weren't supposed to fall in love."

"But you've come back."

"But at a price. If I stay with you the curse of immortality will be on me too. If I choose someone else, I live and die like normal."

Silence hung in the air while the words sunk in.

"I don't know what to do, Erik. Can I handle living forever? You said you wouldn't wish it on anyone. The idea of it scares me. What should I do? Which should I choose?" She looked at him with eyes clouding with water.

They stood there looking at each other, silent. At last, very slowly, he spoke.

"You must do what you think is best." He walked back to the secret door while Musette stood there staring in disbelief.

"Erik!"

He didn't turn; he slipped through the door and was gone.

Outside, the rain finally broke from the clouds and drenched the city.

* * *

_Next... Musette makes her choice._


	9. Choice

Erik sat staring into space. Over and over the scene from the afternoon before played in his head. He longed to grab Musette and keep her locked up in his home until she swore she'd never leave him. He wanted to threaten her, beg her to stay with him. He wanted to cause havoc in the opera house until she capitulated.

But as his thoughts drifted through plans to keep her his forever, he kept seeing the face of Christine. He saw her angry tears as he held the life of the vicomte in his hands. He couldn't do that again. He couldn't drive her away with his obsession for her. He had learned that lesson the hard way. Musette must make the choice on her own. He would continue on just as before and hope that she saw how good life could be with him.

But was he selfish enough to want to condemn her too to a life of eternity? Should he let her go?

It was a curse to live forever. True, by comparison just a century was a short time, but it was long enough. It was long enough to see generations die, to see the pain of getting close only to lose them to time. He hadn't been close to people anyways, but it had given him a great deal of sorrow to see Mme. Giry age and die. It would be cruel to force Musette into solitude to avoid the pain of losing friends. Could he doom her to a life with him as the only constant companion?

By some miracle, she appeared then at the normal time for her lessons. As he saw her all doubt left his mind. He was selfish. Damn all the costs, he did want her. He would just have to hope that she desired him just as much. If he was to condemn her, then he wanted to be sure she loved and yearned for him just as much as he did her.

* * *

By the time Musette went for her morning lesson, she still hadn't been able to come to any conclusions about what she wanted for her future. On the one hand, she had come back from the dead for this man. On the other, she couldn't fathom the concept of eternity and it scared her. Then there was Archie to consider. He loved her and wanted to marry her. Two years they had been together and got on well enough. It would be hard to break his heart after all that.

Erik had waited for over a century. How could she break that heart?

She had wanted him to tell her how much he loved her, how much he needed her. She had wanted him to give her a reason for living forever. But he had just left. He wasn't going to help her decide.

As she walked down the passages to Erik's home, she made up her mind on how to deal with the whole situation. She would just not think about it and hope that fate threw something her way that would help her make the decision. It certainly wasn't the rational or upstanding answer, but the events of the past weeks had left her drained and unable to care that she was being a coward.

* * *

Alex sat as his desk going over some figures. The opera house was doing better than ever, but he still worried over maintaining the standard they had set for themselves. The current diva was well liked, and she was doing a good job every time, but it wasn't fresh anymore. There wasn't the unexpected punch to the performances. It was good, but it was safe and starting to stagnate. He'd have to run a few ideas past the Phantom, possibly even look to audition a new diva soon.

Sure enough, not long after thinking about the Phantom, the man appeared.

"Oh, I was just thinking about you," Alex said. "I have a few things we might need to consider soon, and I wanted to run them by you… first… Is everything all right?"

"I need your advice," the Phantom said slowly, grudgingly.

You could have tipped Alex out of his seat with a feather. "_You_ need _my_ advice? Um… isn't this supposed to work the other way round?"

The Phantom just glared at him.

"Right," Alex said. "My advice. What can I help you with?"

"I want Mlle. Regal to choose me. But my old methods…"

"Would frighten away most girls with their common sense glands still in working order?" Alex finished while fiddling with his collar.

The Phantom smirked. "Exactly. I've been teaching her every day, trying to let her come to me completely on her own. But I don't think it will be enough."

Alex thought about it. He still was worried about the other guy that the Phantom was trying to get rid of, but Musette seemed happy now and never talked about her fiancé. And whatever her choice was, it wasn't any of Alex's business. He might as well help the Phantom with non-violent methods of wooing. "You could pull the old trick of 'taking a break'. Stop the lessons for a while. Say you need to work on a new composition that will take all of your available time. And in the meantime, she might notice that she's missing something."

"She's been away from her _fiancé_ for weeks and hasn't seemed to miss _him_." The disgust for the other man was plain.

"Funny that," Alex said with a telling raise of his eyebrows. "The one she misses most might be the one she wants the most."

The Phantom looked to consider it for a few moments. "Yes. Thank you. Now what did you need to discuss with me?"

"Um… things are going well, but not as spectacular as they could be…"

* * *

Musette was stunned when Erik told her that he'd be too busy for a couple of days to have their lessons. A million things went through her head: he doesn't want me anymore, I'm a disappointment, my voice can't be what it once was, what have I done wrong, is he making this up, why. What came out of her mouth was just a weak agreement to take a few days off and to let him have his time to himself.

The first day she went out and about Paris and tried not to think about him. The second day she spent focusing on her art and not on wondering about the man beneath the opera house. The third day she was moping in her room and missing him. She even found herself missing the moments when Erik pushed her to the point where she wanted to hit him. That was part of the fun of the lessons. Erik could be so frustrating that she wanted to just kick him, or hit him upside the back of his head. He was pushy, demanding, harshly critical, egotistical, bigheaded, and she missed him.

The fourth day she decided to go out just to prevent herself from rushing down to see Erik. The night before, she dreamt of her death on the stairs.

* * *

There were brief images at first. Rehearsing Marguerite's scenes in prison and her death, rushing to her room to change into the white gown Erik made for her, standing in the church beside Erik with Mme. Giry and the new young stagehand Buquet for witnesses, returning to the opera house and taking the secret passages up to the roof. She then instinctively felt why they went to the roof first: they were both nervous about the new intimacy they would share as man and wife.

The next scenes played out in more detail. Musette saw it all through her own eyes once more, unable to change what happened and forced to see, hear, and feel how it all occurred.

Her wedding present for Erik was still in her room. She wanted to be there first to give it to him, so he waited a few moments more on the roof while she hurried down the stairs to her room. She was almost halfway down when her foot slipped. With a scream she tumbled forward and tried to grab the rail to stop herself, but she missed and crashed onto the stairs. She rolled and slipped down until she finally stopped with her back on the jagged floor a few feet above the landing. Every part of her ached, but she tried to push herself up. Then she felt the stabbing pain in her chest and started coughing painfully. She couldn't breathe but only wheezed and coughed.

She then became aware of Erik running down the stair to her. He paused only a moment before falling to her side and gently moving her into his arms.

"Erik," she said in a harsh and wheezing voice. "I don't wan… I don't…"

"Shh, don't speak," he said. Her face was wet from his and her own tears.

"I lo…ve… you."

Though she slipped away into death, in the dream Musette watched Erik sob as he clutched her dead body and demanded, begged, that she return to him.

* * *

For the first time since the nightmares she had as a very small child, Musette woke with a scream and sobs that seemed never to end. She eventually cried herself into a deep and dreamless sleep. In the morning she was torn between keeping her promise to Erik to give him space and time to finish his work, and the desperate need to reassure herself that both he and she were still alive and well. In the end, her hurt feelings that he would send her away for so long made her keep her promise. She decided to go out and feel the life of the people of Paris, to find somewhere quiet to think, and then promise be damned, she'd visit Erik that night.

Gathering her coat and her courage, she left her room. She passed Alex's office and would have said hello, but someone was with him. After she had passed by she heard someone call out behind her.

"Musey!"

Musette felt her stomach drop with a heavy weight of guilt. She had been spending all her time with or thinking about Erik, not Archie. She slowly turned to face him and his huge smile. He walked to her and hugged her tight. She couldn't help comparing him to Erik. Archie hugged, sometimes mauled—Erik embraced and held.

"Did I surprise you?" Archie asked.

"Yes, you certainly did." Musette had to force a smile. She expected to feel the normal rush of happiness to see him, but there was nothing.

He sensed it too and his smile fell. "What's wrong? I almost think that you aren't happy to see your fiancé."

Part of her grew nauseous when he used the word fiancé. She knew which part it was. "It's just a bad time. I need to go out and be by myself for a bit."

"But I just got here. I thought we would spend the day together. Let's take the day and go to Versailles. What do you say?"

"No," she replied. "I don't like Versailles."

"Oh come on, everyone goes there. I've never been, and I'd like to see it. It'll be great."

"No, Archie. I really hate Versailles and I don't want to go."

"Then we'll go to the… the um… the D'Orsay Museum. It's filled with art and you love that."

"I had plans, Archie."

His brow creased. "Plans? With someone? Is that it? That's why you aren't happy? Are you seeing someone else? I thought that since we're engaged you wouldn't go behind my back like that."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she interrupted before he could get any angrier. "No, I had plans by myself. Why do you keep assuming there's someone else?" Even though there really was someone else now, she wanted to know why he _always_ assumed she was seeing someone else when she didn't want to go along with Archie's plans.

"I don't know." He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Just don't scare me like that. I love you and you're my girl. Anyways, I just got here. You can skip those plans and we are going to spend the day together."

"Listen, Archie, I just want to be alone for a little while." She was getting a headache. She needed to work out some way of dealing with the problem she had pushed aside for so long.

"Gee, are you all right?" he asked with concern. "You look a bit peaky. I don't want you going out alone. Come on, let's go to the D'Orsay. You love all that art stuff."

At that exact moment Musette would have loved to throw herself into the Seine rather than see paintings of it, yet she went along. But once they were in the extremely crowded Métro station, she saw a chance and took it without thinking. She separated from him at the last moment when he boarded the train car. She ducked into the crowd of people that had just gotten off, and only turned at the last second to see that he was on the leaving train. Musette decided there and then that she couldn't go to Père Lachaise to think, deal with the dream, and work out a plan for the future. Archie knew how much time she spent in the Highgate and Brompton Cemeteries in London. Instead she took a train and bus out to the Château de Fontainebleau. She wandered around the apartments first, and then out around the grounds. But staring at the lake with the small building in the middle made her think of the lake under the Opéra Populaire… and who lived there.

The sunlight then glinted off of her engagement ring. She had known Archie for two years, and they got on well together. Well enough anyways. They never really argued. When one got firm about something the other just gave in. Or sometimes Archie would just ignore her feelings and do what he wanted, like today. She knew this habit of blatant ignoring—and the going behind her back and apologising later—was a bit untrustworthy. But he did care for her, love her even. That's why he did it; he thought that he knew best and that he had to make the decisions.

She and Erik argued with passion. She knew that well enough from a couple of discussions they had had after her daily lessons. He was certainly more openly dominating than Archie, but that she could stand up to and fight. He also had a habit of spying on her and creeping around secret passages. But that was understandable since he grew up that way, and had spent the past century and a half acting the role of the Opera Ghost.

A century and a half. She still struggled with the thought of living forever, but pieces were falling into place in her head. She had been teetering on a decision and now was falling fully forward towards her choice.

* * *

When Musette returned to the opera house, she felt that heavy weariness from a day of too much activity after a night with not enough sleep. All she wanted was to sit in her room for an hour and then go speak with Erik. Unfortunately, Archie and his other plans were waiting to pounce on her as soon as she walked in the door of the opera house. She knew she should have taken one of the longer back ways that only a few of the workers knew about.

"Where have you been?" Archie demanded. "When I lost you I at least knew that you could find your way to come and meet me at the museum, but you never showed up. Where have you been?"

"Did you check the cemeteries?" Musette asked wearily, starting her long walk up through the opera house to her room while he followed.

"Don't tell me you hang around those here too. Is that where you were?"

"Yeah," she lied. She made a note not to visit them if she wanted to hide. Then again, Père Lachaise was more than large enough to hide in without ever being found.

"Why? Why didn't you come to the museum when we got separated?"

"I told you, I wanted to be alone."

"Muse, I really don't understand this. Well, what's done is done. I made dinner arrangements."

"I don't want to go to dinner."

"You disappear all day, now you don't want to go to dinner? Musey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Then they reached her room. "Why are you all the way back here? Aren't there better rooms?"

"I like this one," she said as she unlocked the door and stepped in. She lit some of the gaslights and then noticed the look on Archie's face.

"No light bulbs? Don't you have electricity?"

"No, Archie. There isn't any in this part of the opera house."

"Well, I_ guess_ that's all right since you won't be here long. Blimey this room is awful. Glad I chose the hotel I did rather than bunk on your sofa. No one could ever sleep on that small thing. Is it even a sofa? This whole place is antique and just awful."

"I happen to love this room, Archie. And why won't I be here long?"

He stared at her incredulously. "Because we are getting married soon and you're coming back to London."

She felt her body screaming against the thought. Paris was home. "What if I prefer to live in Paris for the rest of my life?"

"You're kidding, right? Come on, Musey, it's full of… the French. I don't see how anyone can live here for very long. Anyways, dinner is at eight. That's just over an hour from now, so try not to be late. I'll be waiting by the management door."

Though she didn't like the idea, Musette decided she did owe Archie dinner at least. It had been cruel and cowardly of her just to ditch and run like that. She freshened up, changed, and walked down to the hall of the management offices.

Archie smiled at her. "There you are! Are you ready to go?" They walked around the corner and towards the door. "I had that creepy manager's assistant make dinner arrangements for us at a restaurant one of my father's clients recommended."

"Wait. 'Creepy manager's assistant'? Alex is a friend of mine."

"Oh come on, Muse. You have to admit that he's more than a bit odd. The only thing I'd trust less than an Arab is a Frenchman, and he's the two combined."

"Archie! How dare you! I just told you he's my friend." He looked like he would apologise, but Musette didn't want him to impugn himself. "I won't be having dinner with you, Archie. You can go back to your hotel now."

She started walking away and got around the corner, but she knew he was going to follow her in just a second; he would stand there stunned for only a moment or two for dramatic effect. Just ahead she saw Alex. He motioned her into his office, followed, and locked the door behind them. They both stood listening to Archie's footsteps just outside, and then his yelling for Musette. Eventually he left.

"Thank you," Musette said quietly.

"No problem. So I'm creepy, huh?"

"You heard?"

"Yeah, and thanks for standing up for me. You actually said yes to that guy?"

"Alex, please. He's not… I… Oh, I don't know. I was just with him so long that…"

He stopped her. "I get it. But hey, this makes me feel a whole lot better. You don't know how uncomfortable it's been dealing with the guilt of giving you that room, telling the Phantom about you, and then how he was stalking you…"

"What?" Musette was too stunned by this revelation to form any coherent thought.

Alex just smiled and opened a secret panel in the wall. "If you go down here, turn left at the headless roman, and then follow the right wall along the lake, you'll find him. _Archie_ is probably checking for you in your room. I think if you wait a while I can make sure he leaves."

"You _knew_?" She was still processing the first revelation.

"I told you, I'm the guy that follows his instructions. There isn't much in this place I _don't_ know. Now go, I think that guy down there really loves you." She smiled, gave him a kiss on the cheek and started down the passage. She heard Alex call out behind her, "And I'd dump that Archie jerk, if I were you. Left at the roman, then along the right wall at the lake."

* * *

Musette followed Alex's instructions and was soon entering Erik's lakeside home. She was just beginning to walk around to look for him when she passed an entry way and bumped right into him.

"Musette?" Erik looked from her to the entrance she usually came by, as if to ask how she found her way.

"Tell me. Tell me what to choose. Tell me why I should choose you."

"I…" He looked at her longingly: longing to say the words, and longing for her to understand without them being said.

"Tell me, Erik," she continued to plead. "Tell me why it is I can't wait to see you, and I can't get rid of him fast enough. Tell me why in just a few days I have missed you more than I have him in weeks. Every thought I have is of you. I don't care about forever any more. I want to be with you more than I fear eternity. Please, Erik, tell me why I should choose you."

"Are you certain? Is this what you truly want?"

"Are you not listening to me? Erik, it took a little while, but this is always what was going to happen. I love you! I _died_ and then came back just to be with you again. You wanted me to come back and I did! I don't think it was an accident that I decided to come here and to Paris. I won't fight fate any longer, not when I love you so much. So just tell me I should be with you forever! Tell me you want me."

Erik pulled her into his arms. He held her and ran a hand through her hair. "Of course I want you with me. It may be selfish to keep you forever, but I am never going to let you go."

He tilted her head and kissed her with all the passion he had held back. The simple, chaste kisses he had given her were definitely better than anything Archie ever could manage. But this kiss proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that Archie was dead in the water. Musette was glad that Erik was holding her up; she would have fallen if he wasn't. She had always heard the cliché romance novel phrase "bone melting," and now she knew what that felt like.

"Musette," he whispered as he held her to him again.

Then Musette caught sight of the organ. There was no sheet music on it or near it.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"Why did you tell me not to disturb you for a few days? You said you were caught up in a wind of inspiration and needed to finish it without interruption, but I don't see any new sheets of music around here." She pulled back and looked at him with angry incredulity. "You lied to me!"

He smirked and pulled her back to kiss her again.

"Don't think that you…" Another kiss. "..can just distract me…" Another. "…because it's not…" And another. "…going to…" And again another, even longer this time. "What was I saying?"

"That you love me."

"Oh. Yeah."

Once again he kissed her until the need for air broke them apart.

"Marry me," he said softly.

What should have been the most romantic words were turned to ice water on her mood due to a certain unfortunate circumstance. "I can't. Not yet. Not with Archie here. I need to break it off with him first and then we can… Why are you staring at me like that?"

"Ar-chie?" Erik said with amused derision.

"It's short for Archibald."

Erik couldn't hold in the laughter any more.

"All right, that's enough laughter, _Monsieur le Fantôme_." She pulled off the ring. "I'll be glad to get rid of this ugly thing."

"The diamond doesn't suit you," he agreed. "But you said he's here? I could easily get rid of him for you."

"Without killing him?"

He just smiled evilly, and she knew she was looking at the Phantom of the Opera rather than her Erik.

She shook her head. "I'll get rid of him, but we can make a plan together. I'm not sure how to do this exactly."

"There are some choices: cyanide, arsenic, hemlock, certain mushrooms…"

"Erik!"

* * *

_Next... breaking up with Archie._


	10. Complications

It was mid-afternoon when Musette came down the main staircase. She saw Archie waiting for her. He was pacing and didn't look happy. This was going to be hard, but she had to do it.

"Muse, you can walk down the stairs a bit faster than that," he said at last.

"I don't want to fall."

"You aren't going to! And even if you did, it's only a few feet, you'd be fine."

"What if I wasn't?" she demanded as she reached the bottom.

"What do you mean?"

"What if I wasn't fine? What if I fell and died?"

He stared at her as if she were crazy. "You aren't going to fall down the stairs and die. Musey, I think you need to spend less time in those cemeteries. It isn't good for you to be around so much death."

"I like it." She had thought that he had come to understand her love of walking through cemeteries. Apparently he had only stopped talking about it. She also thought that they had argued more than she had thought before. But the arguments were subtle; he would tell her something "for her own wellbeing" and then becoming insistent that she look after herself more—more his way than hers.

It was time to end this.

"I've been thinking it over, and I've changed my mind." She slipped off the engagement ring and handed it to him. "I'm sorry, but I don't think I can marry you, Archie. I want to call off the whole thing, and then we can just go our separate ways."

He held the ring in his hand and stared at it for a while. Then he feigned a bit of laughter. "Is this a joke? Because it's not funny, Musey."

"Stop calling me that!" Musette said quietly but angrily. "And no, it's not a joke. I don't think I can be with you anymore. I'm sorry, but it's just not working. You're wonderful, but you'll be even more wonderful with someone more like you and less like me."

Again he was silent. Unable to bear it anymore, she turned and walked back up the main stairs to the next level with the boxes and the grand foyer. Archie followed. Standing outside one of the boxes, he grabbed her left hand and put the ring back on her finger.

"We aren't ending this," he said. "We've just spent too much time apart and you've forgotten what we mean to each other. Paris and all these French things have made you distracted, but you'll see that we were made for each other again."

"No, I won't," Musette said. "I'm sorry, Archie, but I can _not_ do this anymore."

She took off the ring again and threw it to the ground since he would not take it. Then she dashed into the nearest box and shut the door behind her. When he finally opened the door, there was no one in the box. He looked around the theatre to see if she had jumped or climbed down the side, but there was no sign of her. He turned. She must have hidden behind the door and dashed out again when he came in. He left the box and looked around the hall. Nothing. Just across the way was the ladies' room, so she was probably holed up in there; it would be no use waiting for her to come out if that was the case. Picking up the ring and putting it in his pocket, he then closed the door with the number five written above the round window.

* * *

Musette hadn't wanted to break up with Archie in so public a place, but Erik insisted that she do it from somewhere she could make a quick escape. She was glad that she took his advice. From Box Five, Erik took her back down to his home. They sat together; he held her close while she leaned back against his chest.

"My name doesn't mean 'little muse,' does it? I can't remember."

He laughed. "No, it's a musical name. The musette can refer to the instrument, the musette de cour, or the dance that came from it later, the bal-musette."

"I know the dance, or dances really. But it's an instrument too? Why haven't I heard of it before?"

"Not many today appreciate the French bagpipes."

"_French_ bagpipes? I'm named after bagpipes?"

"It was very popular at one time. It was in the Baroque period mainly: Bach and Rameau. You once said that when your parents met they heard someone playing the musette de cour not too far away. That's why they chose to name you Musette. You were their Musette du Cœur."

"But how did the dance come from bagpipes? It's with an accordion now, isn't it?"

He laughed. "Yes. Things have an interesting way of changing over time."

"I bet you hate the accordion."

"Not at all."

"Oh, come on. You aren't going to be using an accordion in one of your operas, are you?"

"No, but just because it's a different style of music to my own doesn't mean I don't like it."

"You have a point. Will you promise me never to call me your little muse, or Musey?"

"_Musey_? I don't have to promise. I would never defile your beautiful name with that atrocity of sound."

"One more reason why I love you." They sat in silence for a few minutes. "You don't really listen to accordion music, do you?"

He pushed her forward so he could stand up. He left, but then came back with an old phonograph and records.

"You have records?" she asked in complete amazement. "No CD player?"

"The sound quality isn't as good." He laughed as her jaw dropped. "Music has always been my passion; I may not connect with the world outside, but I have always kept in touch with the changes and innovations in music."

"So you've learned about the technical side of sound quality in modern mediums, but you still dress like it's 1870?"

"People expect to see the Opera Ghost dressed like this. Are you saying you want me to wear jeans?"

Musette looked him up and down to try and picture it. "Maybe. I don't know. I'll get back to you on that."

He started the phonograph and French accordion music started playing. He then held out his hand to her. She took it and he started waltzing her around. The small steps and frequent turns were perfect for the small space. Musette couldn't have been happier as she finally was dancing with a man she loved.

* * *

Archie was in his hotel room and had the phone to his ear.

"Mr. Regal, this is Archie Phillips."

"Archie," the voice came through the phone. "How are you?"

"I'm well, sir, but I'm worried about your daughter."

"What do you mean? Is she sick?"

"No, nothing like that, but she just tried to break off our engagement suddenly and without any reason. I refused to let her, of course, but I'm worried by her behaviour."

"You don't have any idea what brought this on?" He sounded skeptical. This was the one worry in Archie's plan: that Mr. Regal would side against Archie with his daughter.

"No sir, it's only since I've arrived in Paris that…"

"Musette is in Paris? I thought she was in London." Now Henry Regal sounded worried. "Where is she staying?"

"In the opera house," Archie answered, puzzled.

"Which opera house?"

"Yours, sir. The Opera Populaire."

"No, no, this can't be happening."

"Sir?"

"Don't worry, Archie. I'm coming to Paris and we'll sort this whole thing out. Let me know where you are staying. We'll have the two of you married in no time."

* * *

Finally sorting out two lives, learning to love Erik all over again, Musette was ready for just a quick, simple wedding in her best frock. After over a century, Erik was ready for just the ceremony and none of the frills. Alex was ready for them to leave his office.

But he had promised to help them, especially after pointing out the difficulties of legality concerning their marriage. Erik didn't exist. They couldn't legal be wed until Alex obtained fake papers for Erik to exist once more.

"Time was the only ceremony you needed was to sleep together," Erik muttered.

"This isn't the Dark Ages, Erik," Musette said. "And I know that in these modern times we don't even have to be married, but I'm still an old-fashion girl and I want to be married. While technically we are already married legally from all those years ago, I've got an ex-fiancé and a man who calls himself my father to say otherwise. It may be silly, but I want the security of being legally and irrefutably tied to you."

"She… um… has a point," Alex said.

"Stop um-ing, Alex," Erik said. "I would have thought you trusted me by now."

"Trust the immortal psychopathic killer?" he mumbled, but the other two still heard. "Oh yeah, I've definitely learned to do that."

Musette laughed and Erik just shook his head with a good-natured smile. To Alex it seemed more of a sadistic smile, but progress was slowly being made between them.

"So Alex," Musette said. "How long until I can be Madame le Fantôme?"

"That's not really going to be your name, is it?" They both looked at Erik.

"I never had a last name," Erik said. "We were wed under Musette's name, Rigaud."

"How it works is that you'll be getting a new name," Alex said. "I have a couple of contacts good with forging papers, and they just pick a child that was born and died around the time you should have been born and you keep that name. They'll look for an Erik, and then they will give you that Erik's last name. Don't ask how I know them, just be grateful. It won't be cheap either. Making you a legal citizen is extremely illegal."

Erik raised an eyebrow at Alex.

"Yeah, I know," Alex said. "You have plenty of money and no problem with breaking laws. It may take a week or two."

* * *

After the call from Archie, Henry Regal made arrangements to be on a private plane the next day. The day after that he was in Paris. He only hoped that he wasn't too late.

She was still alive. Archie had assured him of that much. Yet who knew how long that would last. Susanne had warned him that their daughter would die if she went in the opera house. He had to get his daughter out of there as fast as possible.

From the airport he took a cab to the apartment he kept for when he wanted to be in Paris and see how his opera house was doing. Archie would meet him there and explain just what was going on.

"Mr. Regal," Archie said when they met together in the apartment's living room. "It's good to see you again."

"Please, Archie, I've told you to call me Henry. Now tell me everything that has happened. Last I heard you were calling me for permission to ask Musette to marry you."

"Yes, that was just before she came to Paris. Just out of the blue she decided to leave London for a while, and I couldn't let her go without proposing first."

"But that was several weeks ago." Henry had had no idea that Musette was in Paris for so long. He hoped that somehow his wife had been wrong… but she was never wrong. Thoughts about Musette contracting some incurable disease that would slowly kill her started to nag him. He would have to act quickly.

"Yes," Archie continued. "I was too busy with work to get away, but I promised to come see her here. I had hoped to make some wedding arrangements, buy her a designer dress here, and then we'd return to London. But now…"

"What happened exactly?" Henry asked.

"I came here and saw her; I thought we'd spend the day together. But I lost her at the Metro station and she never came to meet me. I waited at the museum, and then back at the opera where she finally showed up in the early evening. We were going out to dinner and had a stupid argument, and she refused to go to dinner. She disappeared and I had to go by myself. The next day we met and she threw the ring at me with an 'I'm sorry' and disappeared again."

Henry frowned. "That doesn't sound like her."

"I don't know what's happened. It's like she's someone else entirely."

Henry looked at the young man. He was a good looking man, had a successful career and was more than qualified to take over his father's place when the time came. He seemed kind and respectful. He was just the sort of person a father wanted for a son-in-law. While Henry did want Musette to marry Archie, if her reluctance was the reason she was in Paris, the reason for her odd behaviour, then Henry would get rid of Archie. Then he would return with her to the United States—whether she wanted to or not.

* * *

_Next... the climax and conclusion. After that, the epilogue._


	11. Fight For Love

Musette and Erik were saying goodbye for the day with a passionate kiss in her room, when suddenly something bumped into Erik. Or more specifically, someone coming through the secret passage bumped into him.

"Alex?" Musette said while straightening herself up a bit. Erik just glared.

"Sorry, I know, I should have knocked at the door," Alex said quickly and out of breath. "But this is an emergency. I had to get here quickly and unseen. Musette, your father is here."

"My father?" Musette turned pale. She asked the question she already knew the answer to, "What does he want?"

"He wants to make you leave."

"Never," Erik said as he pulled Musette close in his arms.

"That could work," Alex said, obviously thinking of something and talking to himself.

"What could work?" Musette asked. "My father owns the opera house."

"Don't worry, I've got a plan. Leclerke's going to ask you to his office to meet with your father. Just follow my lead. Um… I might need the Phantom to make his presence known."

* * *

Musette walked into Leclerke's office and took the empty seat next to her father. Alex stood behind her and next to the door.

"Father," she acknowledged, but for the first time, after saying it out loud, she didn't feel that bond between her and Henry Regal.

"Musette," he answered back. He seemed relieved to see her. Did he think she wouldn't come?

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"I do own this opera house," he replied, the relief replaced with contained anger.

Leclerke cleared his throat. "There's a little more to it than that. Did you want…" He directed the unfinished question to Henry, but Henry nodded for Leclerke to continue. "Your father has expressed his… displeasure at your staying here in the opera house, and he wants you to move out immediately. I have no objections to your presence, but I'm only the manager and have no authority to overrule the wishes of the owner."

"But there is one who does," Alex spoke up at last. "And he will do just that."

"What are you talking about?" Henry asked angrily.

"You gave very specific instructions that we were to follow the Opera Ghost's notes as law, as greater than your own word. The Phantom has given me very explicit instructions that Mademoiselle Regal is to, in no uncertain terms, remain here."

"I may have given him rule over the activities in the opera house," Henry said, "but he does not have any say when it comes to my family."

"But as a part of that family, _I_ do," Musette said. "And I want to stay here. No one has any problem with it, so why shouldn't I?"

"Because your mother and I do have a problem with it!"

"My mother is dead."

"And her last words were to keep you away from here."

"Why? What is so wrong with me being here?"

"Nothing! Everything! Just leave it alone and do as you're told."

Just then the lights flickered sharply on and off and on again.

"What was that?" Henry demanded.

"That would be the Ghost," said Alex.

Disturbed by the phantom activity and the family argument, Leclerke again cleared his throat. "Perhaps you should discuss this further between yourselves. I've had my say, and would prefer to leave it to you."

The door, having been left slightly open, suddenly slammed shut and the lights went out completely. When they came on again, Musette was gone.

"No!" Henry screamed in panic. "Where is she? Where did he take her? He can't have her!"

The two men were silent, one out of fear and the other out of knowledge. Henry looked around then left the room.

* * *

When the door had slammed and the lights went out, Musette felt a glove-covered hand go over her mouth and a strong arm pull her. She felt something slide close behind them, and then the gloved hand held hers and led her away. Around a few corners and down some steps, there shone the light from a torch. She knew it was safe to talk then.

"Did you really have to kidnap me, Erik?"

"It made a point."

"Yes, the let's-make-Henry-panic point." She sighed. "But you're right. I may not be able to win this one against him."

Erik stopped walking and looked at her. "So you'll just give in? At the first sign of battle you run from me and back to your other life?"

"No!" She had to quickly reassure him. "I probably won't make him change his mind, so why try? But that doesn't mean I'm obeying him. I more thought that I'd just disappear and live in hiding in the opera until we can be married. Then we introduce you as not the Phantom, but just the teacher I've been taking lessons from, fell in love with, and secretly married. Then we convince him that we'll stay in Paris, and just conveniently avoid the fact that we'll live here. What can he say then?"

"It could work," Erik slowly agreed.

They walked through the passages to her room in a comfortable silence. Musette double checked that her room was empty and that the door was firmly bolted. She pulled a chair in front of it—just in case. Erik smirked at that.

"I could just block the hallway completely," he suggested.

"Sure, talk with Alex about that," she said while she pushed the hair that had fallen out of her face. She walked over to him. "Now where did we leave off when we were so rudely interrupted?"

* * *

Henry stood in his flat in front of a group of men.

"I want you all watching the Opera Populaire, inside and out. Find her. The moment you see my daughter, grab her and bring her here. You may need to use force, but please be as gentle as possible. I want her back safe."

All the men left, and all but one went straight to the Populaire. The one went to locate the plans for the opera house in public records.

* * *

The next few days were without incident. Musette kept to her room (the door hidden with false walls redirecting the flow of the hall and completely blocking the door), Erik's house, and the secret passages between. This morning started like any other. She got up and went to her vanity to brush her hair before bathing and then going down to see Erik for breakfast and voice lessons. As she ran the brush down her hair, she saw movement in the mirror just out of the corner of her eye. She turned, but only saw a large white cloth shoved into her face. In only a few breaths her vision went black as she lost consciousness.

When she woke, she was still in her nightgown. She was relieved that it was unharmed by her attacker, since it was a gown from her previous life, kept safe and in pristine condition in cedar chests by Erik. It was only a small relief. The bed and the room were modern. She looked around and realised it was the guest room in her father's apartment. She got up and wrapped the surcoat tighter around her. She tested the knob on the door and was surprised to find it unlocked.

"There you are!" Henry said happily when she walked into the main room. He was there with his personal aid and Archie.

"Are you all right?" Archie asked as he put his hands on her shoulders and looked to reassure himself that she was unharmed.

She roughly pushed him away. "I've been kidnapped. I don't think that approaches anywhere near to all right."

"Please, darling," Henry said, trying to sound caring yet firm. "It was for your own good."

"How is it for my own good?"

"You don't belong there," Henry said.

"No, there is exactly where I belong. I'm not staying here."

"No, we're going home to America this afternoon."

"What?" Archie said with shock. "You said we were going to London."

"Don't be a fool; she clearly doesn't care for you anymore."

"But…"

"Mr. Phillips, thank you for letting me know my daughter was here," Henry said, his voice dangerously calm. "But I can see from just this brief time I spent with you why my daughter wouldn't want to marry you. I'm surprised you were together as long as you were. Now, kindly get out."

He stood there with an open mouth, unable to form any coherent sentence.

"Just go, Archie," Musette said. "I'm sorry, but I told you before that it's over."

He turned and slowly started walking out. He hadn't fully turned around before Musette took up arguing with Henry again.

"Why can't I stay here?" she demanded. "Why have you always forbidden me from staying too long in Paris? And why wasn't I ever allowed in your opera house? I don't understand any of this!"

"I made a promise to your mother," he answered dismissively and then turned to his aid. "Are the passports ready and the plane scheduled?"

"Everything is ready for you to leave tonight, sir," the aid replied.

"Leave?" Musette echoed. "I'm not going anywhere without an explanation. For god's sake, you had me kidnapped!"

Henry motioned with his head for the aid to leave. As he closed the door to the outside hall, Musette caught a brief glimpse of two guards and Archie standing there. She turned back to her father. He was leaning over a table, his arms bracing him up.

"Your mother told me that if you ever went into the opera house that you would die."

"What?"

"She was never wrong about these things. Her premonitions, her visions, they all came true."

"I'm not dead," Musette said.

"Not yet."

"Not ever. I can safely, and with every confidence, promise you that I won't die because I moved into the opera house."

"No, you can't do that. I know what Susanne said; she was never wrong. I have to get you away from here."

Musette would have argued that there were so such things as visions and premonitions, but it was too hypocritical for her. But at the same time, she knew it couldn't be true; according to the curse, she couldn't die. "What did she say exactly? What was her _exact_ prophesy?"

"She said that should you ever go into the opera house, our daughter will be no more. Those words have haunted me."

"She was right." The words just slipped out before she could take them back. So instead she continued. "I'm not your daughter anymore."

Henry looked very confused. "I don't…"

"You believed in her visions, so now I'm going to ask you to believe me. I'm not your daughter. I was never your daughter. Look at me! It was no coincidence that you named me Musette. I'm the reincarnation of that same Musette who lived and died in the Opéra Populaire over a century ago. It's so complicated, but the short of it is I came back from the dead and won't die again."

"That's…"

"Impossible? There's more. The opera ghost? I'm in love with him. I've come back _for him_. I'm not leaving here ever again."

"This is insane."

"You believed your wife could see the future, but not that I'm the immortal reincarnation of a nineteenth century woman? If you want proof, there's a gypsy woman in Montmartre, just down the street from the Café Rouen. Ask her if I'm your daughter."

"Susanne told me that…" His mind was coming apart in confusion, but Musette had to make her point.

"Now that I know who I am, I can't be your daughter anymore. I'm sorry, Henry."

With those words, Henry pushed down his doubts and confusion and let his anger take hold. "You are my daughter, and you will obey me." He grabbed her by an arm and pushed her back into the guest room. This time the door was locked. Musette banged on the door and shouted to be let out, but Henry ignored it. In moments she heard music coming very loudly from the stereo system in the main room.

Musette looked around, already anxious like a trapped animal. She kicked and knocked on the door more. It was irrational to think it would do anything, but she wasn't thinking too rationally. She wanted to throw something, so she opened the closet and threw the spare clothes over the floor. Taking a deep breath to calm down, she looked out the window. It was locked shut, but there was a fire escape accessible from it. The music from the other room was just loud enough.

* * *

Henry tried to listen to music to clear his head and drown out the sound from the door, but he couldn't. Something wouldn't let him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he should see the woman Musette mentioned. It wasn't too far to the café; it was actually quite close. It took him only a few minutes to get to the gypsy shop.

* * *

Musette decided not to take the Métro. While she was able to put on a long coat over her nightgown from the guest room closet, she didn't have any money with her. She knew Paris well enough to take a longer, harder to follow route back to the Opéra Populaire. She knew that by then Henry may have noticed her absence and sent more men to the opera house to take her again. She took a hidden alley entrance into the building, and then up to the back way to the side gallery attached to the Grand Foyer. She just had to cross around to the other side of the stairs to get to Box Five, but before she could she heard footsteps running up the stairs.

"Musette!" Archie said as he stood between her and Box Five. "I'm not letting you go."

"Leave me alone, Archie," Musette argued, but in her mind she tried to think of some other way to get to Erik without being caught. She backed up and tried to distract him. "I'm sorry, but it's never going to work. I just don't love you anymore."

He rushed forward and grabbed her arm too tight for her to break free. "No! You can't have _just_ stopped loving me."

"Did I ever love you? I'm not sure I could have truly loved you."

"How can you say that? We were together for…"

"For too long," she said before he could. "It was comfortable. But now… I love someone else, Archie. I'm going to marry someone else."

"No!" he shouted. "You can't. We're meant for each other. Who could be better than me?"

"Me."

Archie loosed his hold on Musette and turned. There stood in full cape and blazing eyes behind the half mask—the Phantom of the Opera. Alex was suddenly behind Musette; he gently held her back and out of the line of fire should a lasso strike out at Archie.

"Who…" Archie's voice cracked.

"Surely you should already know who I am."

Archie backed up and nodded. He glanced quickly at Musette and then back at the Phantom. "You can't be the one that…"

"Can't I?" Erik taunted. "This is your last chance to leave here alive. I suggest you go quickly."

"Go, Archie," Musette added. "It's over."

"No!" Archie still refused to believe her. "I want a fair fight. A duel with swords to the death."

"What?" Musette asked in disbelief. "It won't change _anything_. You won't live, Archie."

"Yes, it will. I've taken lessons. I'm good with a sword, and I want a duel."

Erik gave a slight bow, clearly indicating that he welcomed the duel. Alex had dashed away as soon as Archie mentioned wanting to fight with swords, and he very quickly returned with two blades. The two enemies took their blades and their positions. With the drop of Alex's arm, the fight began.

"Stop!" Musette shouted over the ring of metal crashing together. "This is stupid and won't change anything. I don't want to be with you, Archie, but that doesn't mean I want you dead."

"Don't be so sure that he'll win," Archie shouted back at her.

"Just let them do this," Alex whispered to her while once again wrapping an arm around her to keep her in place.

"But…"

"I don't think he means to kill your ex-fiancé, but he may need to beat him to finally make him leave."

The fight continued and echoed through the whole foyer. At one point, Archie stumbled and was almost finished off by Erik, but at the last second he slipped away and started backing up down the stairs. Even on such precarious ground they continued to strike their blades against each other. Alex let Musette follow at a safe distance to see better. She was halfway down the last stairs while they fought across the once again flat floor.

Their blades locked and as they struggled and pushed free from each other, Erik's mask fell to the floor. Archie stepped back in horror and they both stopped. Erik looked at Musette for a moment, looked for her to show signs of revulsion as well, but she only looked at him with love.

Archie recovered himself when he saw how Musette looked at this monster he was fighting. He rushed forward and with his desperate strokes knocked the sword from Erik's grip. Archie pushed him to the ground and raised his sword.

Seeing the snow-covered graveyard all over again, Musette cried out. This time there was nothing to prevent her from running to Erik's side. She threw herself over him and looked up at Archie's once again stunned and horrified face.

"Enough!"

They all then turned their eyes to Henry Regal as he walked towards the scene. Archie let his sword arm drop down as he backed away. Musette and Erik got up and stood together.

"This is my opera house, and I want you to leave and never return," Henry said to Archie. The younger man hesitated. "Or do I have to call the police?"

With one last look at Musette, now held possessively by Erik's arm, Archie let the sword clatter to the floor and walked out of the opera house.

Henry sighed and looked at the woman who was once his daughter. "So this is who you are." It was unclear if he spoke to Musette or Erik.

"I…" Musette stumbled over something to say, but could think of nothing.

"It's fine," Henry said, a hand raised in defeat. "I spoke with the woman you wanted me to see. I won't interfere with your life anymore. You were never mine to keep."

Musette couldn't take the sadness in his voice. She walked to him and hugged him. "You may not be my true father, Henry, but you're still my dad."

They shared a looked of sad understanding. "You'll keep in touch then?" he asked her.

"Of course. And will you be staying for the wedding?"

"Of course." He sighed again. "I guess I have travel plans to go cancel and change."

"We could have lunch tomorrow, if you want," she offered.

"All right. Until lunch tomorrow." With that, Henry also started to leave, but Alex stopped him.

"Mr. Regal," said Alex. "With your permission, we've chosen a replacement for Madame Stella."

"We?" Henry asked. Alex looked at Erik and then back to Henry. Resigned to letting the Phantom once again have a say in things, Henry asked, "All right, who is it?"

"Mademoiselle Musette Regal," Alex answered.

"What?" Musette couldn't stop the word from slipping out while she stood in shock.

Henry smiled. "I may have to stay in Paris longer than I thought."

"It wouldn't be until next season, so there's some time before her opening night," Alex said. "Shall we discuss it in my office?"

Henry let Alex lead him back to the offices, leaving the couple alone in the foyer.

"Me? The prima donna?"

"Yes, my perfect water nymph, you are going to be the new prima donna," Erik said with laughter in his voice at her surprise.

"You could have mentioned it before," she accused.

"It was Alex's idea, and I agree with him. You're ready." He held her close and she felt her fears fall away.

She looked up at him, taking her time to really see his whole face. "I love you so much, Erik."

Their lips came together and nothing else had to be said.

* * *

_Next... the epilogue._


	12. Epilogue

**2181**

* * *

Anna Stravinska put the last touches of mascara and pulled away from the mirror to look at the final effect. Her stage makeup wasn't absolutely flawless, but it was as close to perfect as she was going to get it without her normal artist. The damn woman lasted two months before giving her notice and running out. It was all to do with some silly nonsense about ghosts or something. What did the woman expect? Any proper theatre is full of its own haunting spectres.

Anna's dressing room door flew open with a bang and a gaggle of ballerinas flooded through. Luckily Anna had finished with the mascara and put it safely away. The girls would have gotten quite the painful earful if she hadn't. They all twittered and cried with fearful excitement—unaware of the prevented disaster.

"All right, silence everyone! What is it?" Anna shouted.

"Oh Anna! It was dreadful!" cried one of the older girls.

"What was, Danielle? What's the matter with all of you?"

"We saw the ghost!" another girl whispered loudly. The girls all looked around as if to make sure the spirit wasn't there with them.

"What ghost? Are you sure it wasn't just your shadow or something?"

"Oh no, Anna," said one who Anna worried was getting too good on stage for Anna's peace of mind. "We saw _him_."

"Him?" Anna pulled off her dressing cape and adjusted the bow on her costume.

"The Phantom of the Opera!" one of the girls cried.

"And just what did _he_ look like?"

Several spoke at once. Anna was able to pull from the din a description of a tall man in a dark cloak with a white mask over half his face. It was the usual description. Some of the girls then gave all sorts of reasons for the Phantom's presence: it was a bad omen, someone was going to have an accident on stage, one of the stage hands was going to be murdered, he was angry with the dance choreography, and so on went the theories.

"Enough!" Anna shouted at last. "The Phantom can't hurt you. He hasn't caused any harm to anyone."

"He murdered two men!" one girl cried.

"_If_ that story is true, which I doubt, it happened nearly three centuries ago. Girls, there is nothing to be afraid of. A ghost is a sign of good luck in a theatre, not an omen of doom. Now all of you out! We open tonight's opera in just a little while."

Anna was proven right when the opera ended with a standing ovation. She smiled at the crowd and took her bow. But as she stood she caught sight of a strange shadow in one of the boxes. More specifically, it was the shadow of two figures in the box that was never sold. No one sat in Box Five.

Anna took another bow as was expected and then stepped back with the line of the company. She glanced at Box Five again. The figures were gone. Anna's smile to the crowd was less sincere after that moment.

She hurried past the congratulations and flew to the sanctuary of her dressing room. She jumped slightly when the door opened. This time it was her fiancé, Louis Diab, the son of the manager of the Populaire.

"And how is my favourite prima donna after her night of triumph?" he asked as he handed her a bouquet of roses.

"She's not quite sure," Anna replied honestly.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd seen a ghost."

"You don't believe in the Phantom? I thought you…"

"Oh no, I know there's a couple of ghosts here. It was just an expression, trying not to state the obvious, all that." He kissed the top of her head while she wiped off the heavy paint that was her stage makeup.

"What do you mean a couple of ghosts?" she asked after a few minutes. "I've heard about the one from the ballet girls."

"Ah, yes. They love being frightened of him. But hasn't anyone told you about his bride?" She shook her head, so Louis continued. "She's known as the Dark Lady because of her black hair and dark clothes. The story goes she was in love with the Phantom over three hundred years ago, but as punishment for his wicked deeds the two were kept apart for a century before they were reunited."

"How…"

"Something to do with a gypsy curse or something. That's how it usually goes anyways. But if the ballet rats give you any more trouble about the Phantom, just remind them that since reuniting with his bride the Phantom hasn't been anything but a sign of good luck."

Anna stared at him in her mirror for a long moment. "Why do I get the feeling you're not telling me everything? Your family has worked here for how many generations did your father say?"

Louis only laughed.

"See!" Anna said. "You are keeping something from me."

"What? Do you think my father has a book full of all sorts of secrets about this place? Like how the Phantom has run this theatre through my family for almost two centuries, he wrote the opera you so wonderfully performed tonight, and he and his wife actually live high in a secret suite of rooms in the opera house?" Louis laughed at his joke. "Ridiculous, darling! No, Anna, I'm not keeping anything from you. But you are keeping me from a wonderful supper I planned for us both to celebrate tonight. Hurry and change while I go get the car."

As Anna left the Opéra Populaire she passed the manager's office. Still unaware of so many secrets, she joined her fiancé for a night out.

Louis hadn't been joking. The manager's office guarded piles of secrets. There was the set of blueprints the public would never see showing a suite of rooms and a handful of the secret passages in the opera house. There was the second set of accounts detailing the amount paid to the Phantom for his work. There was a collection of music and operas written over decades under different pen names but the same author. And locked away in a hidden safe there was the book put together by a historian detailing the history of the Phantom of the Opera through newspapers, letters, and journals. With it was a second book written by Alexander Diab. It gave a fantastical account of gypsy curses, reincarnation, and the reason why in this opera house love never dies.

* * *

_Fin_


End file.
